Sick of Shadows (15 page)

“And are you coming forward?” Harry asked Ailsa, who had told him the whole story.

“No, sir. Better just to leave it as it is.”

“Quite right. Berrow and Banks probably hired someone to get you drunk. You say you were drinking water in a gin glass and he didn’t even notice?”

“No, sir. He did not. I think he had a very weak head.” Ailsa had no intention of betraying her capacity for gin to anyone.

Berrow and Cyril stared at each other in horror in The Club over their copies of the
Evening News.

“You know what?” said Cyril.

“What?”

“That Cathcart fellow’s going to kill both of us. He’s engaged to Lady Rose again. I’m telling you, he’s vicious.”

Berrow folded his newspaper. “Tell you what, I’m going north to my place in Yorkshire for Christmas. Come along. We’ll leave as soon as possible. If that maniac turns up anywhere near us, I’ll get the keepers to shoot him!”

Rose, once again serving in the soup kitchen, found the cheerful religious man she had met before standing in front of her.

“The Lord be with you,” he said, holding out his bowl.

“And with you, sir,” said Rose.

“The Lord is good,” he said, looking at her with shining eyes. “His angel come to me in prison.”

“And you will sin no more?” asked Rose.

“Bet your life I won’t, missus,” he said cheerfully. “Can I have an extra helping?”

When she and Miss Friendly had finished, they returned to the town house where the maids were beginning to pack their trunks preparatory to the move to Stacey Court.

Before she went upstairs, Miss Friendly said, “Please tell Miss Levine I have her frock ready.”

“I hope everyone is not taking advantage of you.”

“No, not at all. I enjoy the work.”

Daisy looked in awe at the dark blue taffeta gown Miss Friendly had designed and made for her. It was cut low on the bodice and trimmed with little pearls at the edge of the neckline.

“Did you do this without a pattern, Florence?” asked Daisy, who was the only one to call Miss Friendly by her first name.

“I studied such a gown when we were visiting Madame Laurent’s salon and suddenly realized I could create something like it.”

“You should speak to Lady Rose about opening your own salon.”

“That would take a great deal of money and my lady has been generous enough.”

Daisy thanked her and went off lost in thought. What if she, Becket and Miss Friendly got together to open a salon? She and Becket could handle the business side. Rose could be persuaded to wear Miss Friendly’s creations as a form of advertisement. She and Becket could then marry.

Daisy wore the new gown that evening. Lady Polly kept flashing angry little glances at her. Harry had joined them for dinner.

Rose was feeling depressed. Harry was certainly playing his part of being the faithful fiancé, but there was something aloof and guarded about him when he spoke to her.

When Lady Polly led the ladies to the drawing-room after dinner, she glared again at Daisy’s gown and said to her daughter, “You must not pass on your finest clothes to your companion. That gown is quite unsuitable.”

“Miss Friendly designed and made it for her.”

“You are sure?”

“Oh, yes.”

“She could have her own salon and make a fortune,” said Daisy.

“Miss Friendly has enough to do here,” snapped the countess, looking enviously at the companion’s gown. “I think she should start making clothes for me.”

Two days later, the earl’s household set out for the country. London was still in the grip of a great frost. As the line of carriages and fourgons moved out into the countryside, white trees and bushes lined the road. Everything seemed still and frozen. Smoke from cottage chimneys rose straight up into the darkening sky.

Rose huddled into her furs. She thought of Dolly now lying under the cold earth in her father’s churchyard. Poor Dolly. If only she could find out who had murdered the girl, she felt that Dolly could rest in peace. The letters from Mrs. Tremaine had abruptly ceased, but Rose supposed that it was because she had stopped answering any of them.

Harry had promised to arrive on the following day. It had been very difficult to find a Christmas present for him. Rose had finally settled on buying him a copy of
The New Motoring Handbook
. Now she wished she had bought something more expensive, like a pair of gold cuff-links. The bottle of French scent she had bought for Daisy had cost a great deal more than the book.

She found she was missing her work at the soup kitchen. It had given some purpose to her days. She had persuaded her father to let her send six geese to the soup kitchen for Christmas dinners and felt she should have been there in person to serve them.

The work in the East End had made her look too closely at her own life for comfort. When they finally arrived at Stacey Court, all she had to do was go to her rooms and rest while an army of servants unloaded the fourgons, footmen carried up the trunks and maids unpacked the clothes.

She had suggested to her mother that such great divisions between rich and poor were worrying, but Lady Polly had merely pointed out that God put one in one’s appointed station. If Rose wanted to continue with good works at Stacey Court, said the countess, then there were plenty of people in the village who would be glad of her services.

The next day she confided to Matthew Jarvis that sometimes she envied her parents’ indifference to the poor. “Your father is not as indifferent as he seems. None of his tenants are allowed to starve or fall sick without treatment,” said Matthew. “I have instructions to tell the factor not to collect any rent from the poorest.”

Rose wrapped up her Christmas presents and put them on a table under the tree. The servants’ hall had their own tree and presents would be given from the earl and countess at the servants’ dance, traditionally held in the afternoon of Christmas day.

Harry arrived, polite, attentive and as closed as a shut door. Christmas came and went. Harry gave her a splendid diamond-and-sapphire necklace and she blushed when she handed him that book.

And then, after Boxing Day, one of the maids fell ill with typhoid and part of the drive fell into the cesspool below.

A doctor was summoned to treat the maid. A nurse was hired for her. The factor was instructed to deal with the cesspool and the earl thought it safer to remove everyone back to London.

As they arrived at the town house, it began to snow, small swirling flakes that seemed to rise upwards in the lamplight.

Fires were hurriedly lit. The house was freezing. Rose went to bed that night with two stone hot-water bottles in her bed, or “pigs,” as they were called.

She was just drifting off to sleep, watching the flames dancing in the fireplace through half-closed lids, when suddenly she was wide awake.

At last she knew what it was that had been nagging at the back of her brain. She must tell Harry.

She was sure she now knew who had murdered Dolly.

In Yorkshire, Berrow and Cyril were feeling more like their horrible selves. They had shot every animal and bird on the estate that they could, had gone wenching in the brothels of York, and were beginning to regret having been so scared of Harry Cathcart.

It was only when the gamekeeper caught a poacher and dragged the man in to see Lord Berrow at gunpoint that Berrow began to have the germ of an idea. “I’ll take him to the police,” said the gamekeeper.

Berrow eyed the poacher thoughtfully. Most poachers were people who risked prison in order to feed their families during the hard winter, but this one was an unsavoury character with one wall eye, a long nose, and thin greasy hair. He dismissed the gamekeeper.

“Name,” barked Berrow.

“John Finch, melord.”

“Prison for you, me lad. What do you think of that?”

“Been there. Leastways get fed.”

“What were you in prison for?”

“Beating the wife.”

“Nonsense, man. Most men beat their wives, as is their right.”

“Was living ower near place called Drifton. My Ruby cheeked me, so I took a plank to her. Local copper comes rushing in. Charges me with assault and battery. Thought they’d throw it out o’ court but damned if they did. When I got out, Ruby was gone.”

“You’ll get life this time. Second offence.”

Finch looked frightened but tried to cover it up with a pathetic attempt to swagger. “Well, go on. Get it over with.”

Berrow studied him for a long moment.

“There could be another way.”

Rose fretted. Harry had gone out of town on a case. London was buried under great drifts and there were reports that the Thames had frozen.

All she could do was wait impatiently for his return.

Ailsa Bridge lifted her skirt and extracted the flat flask she kept secured by her garter. She took a hearty swig and then began to type again. Harry had assured her that Berrow and Banks were in Yorkshire and that she would be safe from any other attempts.

Her life with her missionary parents in Burma had been full of danger and she had taken many great risks to supply the War Office in London with intelligence. She did not feel as confident as Harry and did not want to worry him. She had bought an old breastplate in an antique shop and was wearing it under her gown. She also had primed Harry’s pistol and put it in her own desk.

She heard a step on the stair and stiffened. There was something furtive about that step. The nobility who usually frequented the office would come crashing in, full of bluster, demanding that some scandal or other be hushed up or some missing dog found.

Ailsa slid open the drawer and took out the pistol, laid it on top of the desk and covered it with her scarf.

The door opened and a man in a tweed coat, knickerbockers and a flat cap came in.

“Where’s the captain?” he demanded.

“Out of town. Please leave.”

He pulled out a gun and pointed it at her. “Go in there.” He jerked his head at the inner office. “Open the safe.”

Ailsa’s hand crept towards the gun.

Finch saw the movement and shot her full in the chest. Ailsa crashed backwards in her chair and fell to the floor and lay still.

He searched in her desk until he found the keys. He went into the inner office and opened the safe. He was just reaching into it when a shot caught him on the shoulder. He grabbed his wounded shoulder and turned round. White-faced but stern, Ailsa was holding a pistol on him. He looked wildly for the gun, which he had put on Harry’s desk, but keeping him covered, Ailsa picked it up and threw it onto the floor.

As he groaned and clutched his shoulder, she picked up the receiver and said in a crisp voice, “Police.”

After she had made a statement to the police and they had left with Finch, Ailsa telephoned Harry. He listened in horror and said, “But you said he shot you!”

“I was wearing a breastplate,” said Ailsa.

“You are sharper than I am. I’ll come straight back. Meanwhile, you will find a negative and a photograph in the safe.

They are in an envelope. Do not look at them. I do not want the police to see them. Please call Phil Marshall and tell him to come and pick them up. The police did not find them, did they?”

“No, I told them he had no time to take anything.”

“Go home, Miss Bridge. I shall go directly to Scotland Yard.”

Harry was ushered in to see Kerridge. “This is a bad business,” he said. “The chap who tried to kill your secretary is an unsavoury character called John Finch. He says he was hired by Lord Berrow, furnished with a gun, told to kill you if necessary and to get a negative out of your safe. We sent a man back and he retrieved the negative. It was nothing but a negative and photograph of a saucy lady in the altogether. Miss Bridge said a client of yours had paid you to get the negative and photo back. She said Berrow knew of the photograph and might use it to ruin her reputation.”

Oh, excellent Miss Bridge, thought Harry.

“That is true. I never thought Berrow would go to such extremes. Furthermore I cannot, of course, give you the name of the lady. She has done nothing criminal. What are you doing about Berrow?”

“The police commissioner in York is going out to his estate to arrest him personally.”

Oh, the magic of a title. If Lord Berrow had been Mr. Bloggs of nowhere, the police would have pounced without warning. But the police commissioner made the mistake of phoning Berrow first and saying he was coming to see him on a grave matter and bringing the chief constable with him.

Berrow rushed to find Cyril, who was potting balls in the billiard-room. Cyril had highly approved of the plot to hire Finch.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “The game’s up.” He told Cyril about the impending visit of the police commissioner and the chief constable.

“What’ll we do?”

“Get out the bloody country, that’s what!”

NINE

Life is the art of drawing sufficient conclusions from insufficient premises.

—
SAMUEL BUTLER

Berrow and Cyril fled as far as Glasgow. Scottish law was different from English law, so surely, they felt, they would feel safe for a while.

They booked into the Central Hotel beside the railway station, sharing a suite and calling themselves the brothers Richmond.

“I say,” said Cyril moodily, looking at their great pile of luggage, “we are drawing attention to ourselves with all this stuff. We had to employ a squad of porters to get the few yards round from the station. And I’m sick of this disguise. It’s hot.” Like Berrow, Cyril was sporting a false beard. They had managed to work their way north by means of several branch railway lines before they arrived tired and weary in Glasgow.

“I’ve got an idea,” said Berrow. “You know that big motor car Cathcart has?”

“What about it?”

“We could get something like that. It would take us and all the luggage. We could then make our way by country roads to Stranraer, get over to Ireland. Great place to hide out, Ireland.”

Both had taken with them a considerable amount of money and valuables. The timely warning call from the police had also enabled them to transfer their accounts to a Swiss bank.

“Good idea,” said Cyril.

That evening, they inquired at the reception desk for the whereabouts of a motor car salesroom and got directions to a large one in Giffnock.

The following morning, they set out. Pride of the salesroom display was a Rolls-Royce, and Berrow decided that it would be ideal. He paid cash, to the delight of the salesman, who then discovered that neither knew how to drive.

Cyril was taken out on the road for a lesson. After two hours, he decided he knew how to start up and go forward. So long as he was not expected to reverse, he felt he could manage pretty well. They returned to the centre of the city and bought leather motoring coats, leather hats and goggles, and Berrow embellished his ensemble with a long white silk scarf.

Not wanting to cope with the Glasgow traffic, they took a cab back to their hotel. They waited until the following morning and had to hire two of Glasgow’s new motorized taxi-cabs to take them and their luggage out to the salesroom.

With Cyril at the wheel, scowling in concentration, they set out on the road. Berrow studied ordnance survey maps. The idea was to go by country roads to Stranraer and take the ferry to Ireland. They planned to hide out in Ireland for a time and then sail to France and make their way to Switzerland.

The weather was fine, with feathery clouds decorating a pale blue sky. The fresh scents of the countryside blew into the open car. Cyril relaxed as he grew more confident.

The trouble began when they motored through a village and a pretty girl stared at the car in open-mouthed admiration.

When they were clear of the village and Berrow saw a long straight stretch of road ahead, he called, “Stop!” Berrow had become jealous of Cyril at the wheel.

Cyril pulled to a halt. “What’s up?”

“Let me take the wheel for a bit.”

“You can’t drive.”

“Show me. Just how to move it along.”

“Oh, all right.” Cyril got out and they changed places.

After several attempts and crashing gears, Berrow managed to get the car to move forward. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator. Although the speed limit was thirty miles an hour, the Rolls was capable of doing a hundred.

Hedges hurtled past in a blur as Cyril screamed, “Ease off the accelerator!”

“What?” shouted Berrow. “This is fun.”

As he hurtled down a bend in the road and straight at a hump-backed bridge, his scarf blew across his face. Panicking, Cyril grabbed the wheel. With a great crash, the car hit the parapet sideways on. The ancient stonework crumpled. Cyril was catapulted onto the river bank. He hit a stone with the full impact of his head and lay still.

Berrow stared down at him in horror. “Are you all right?” he called, but he was sure Cyril was dead.

He felt the car lurch. He got out carefully and went and looked at the damage. The wheels were hanging over the edge where the parapet had once been.

He struggled down the river bank to Cyril. He felt for a pulse but found none.

Berrow climbed back to the car. He would need to walk back to that village for help. His hands were shaking. He stood at the back of the car, lit a cigarette with a vesta and tossed the lighted match on the ground, unaware of the lake of petrol that had formed.

There was a terrific explosion as Berrow and the car went up in a fireball of flame.

Harry was to escort Rose to a luncheon party and she prayed he would not cancel.

They were accompanied by Daisy, Turner, the lady’s maid, and two footmen. Rose began to wonder if she would ever have a chance to speak to Harry in private.

She was not seated next to him at table and so talked a little to the gentleman on her right—the weather—and the gentleman on her left—the state of the nation—picked at her food and thought the wretched meal with its eight courses would never end. How wonderful it would be, she thought, if I were to pick up the table-cloth and bundle all this food and take it down to the East End.

At last the hostess signalled to the ladies to join her in the drawing-room and leave the gentlemen to their port.

“Why are you looking so nervous?” whispered Daisy.

“Nothing.” Rose wanted to tell Harry about her discovery first. A little twinge of guilt warned her that she should have confided in Daisy first, but Rose wanted to impress Harry, to show him she could detect as well.

At last the gentlemen came in. Bridge tables were being set up and Daisy’s green eyes gleamed like a cat’s. She was a killing bridge player.

Harry joined Rose. She whispered urgently, “I must talk to you in private.”

“There’s a conservatory at the back of the house. Let’s walk there.”

In the steamy warmth of the conservatory, they sat down on a bench in front of a marble statue of Niobe.

Harry was the first to speak. Rose listened in amazement when he told her how Berrow and Banks had hired Finch and how his secretary had nearly been killed. “The police commissioner in York is going to arrest them. Don’t you see? You are safe now. They must have been the ones behind the murder of Dolly.”

Rose’s splendid deduction was losing its glow, but she said, “I have discovered something as well. I am sure it was Jeremy Tremaine who hired Reg Bolton.”

“Why?”

“There is this Cockney who comes to the soup kitchen. He found God in prison. Don’t you see? Jeremy is a divinity student. He could have been visiting prisoners and found a useful one.”

“I really do think we’ll find out it was Berrow and Banks.”

Rose looked so disappointed that he said hurriedly, “To put your mind at rest, I can leave now and go to Wormwood Scrubs and check the book for visiting clerics.”

“Take me with you. Please!”

“Very well. Tell Daisy to take Turner home in a cab.”

Normally Daisy would have been curious, but she was so addicted to cards that she only nodded.

At the prison, the governor protested that he was too busy a man to keep dealing with Captain Cathcart’s requests.

Rose gave him a blinding smile and the governor thawed. He not only produced the required books but suggested that he take Rose on a tour of the prison.

Wormwood Scrubs proved to be even larger than Rose had imagined. It generally contained a thousand male and two hundred female convicts. They walked round the laundries where the women worked and then to the bakeries where the prisoners in their ugly uniforms were baking bread. There was also shoemaking and tailoring going on.

What Rose found unnerving was that all the labour was done in complete silence. It was like being in a Trappist monastery.

She was also taken to a room where the triangles were. Prisoners were strapped to these triangles and either birched or lashed with the cat-o’-nine-tails. The cat-o’-nine-tails was kept in a drawer. The governor lifted it out for Rose to examine. “Doesn’t look much, but it can inflict some damage.”

Rose repressed a shudder and suggested they return to Harry.

He was just closing the books when they entered the governor’s barrack-like office.

As he and Rose got into the Rolls, he said, “Jeremy Tremaine visited the prison on six occasions in the months before his sister’s death. One of the prisoners he visited was Reg Bolton.”

“I wonder what Jeremy will say when we ask him?”

“We? I thought of going myself with Becket tomorrow.”

“You must take me with you! It was my idea.”

“I suppose your parents will agree if we take Becket and Daisy.”

Lady Polly was in a fury when they got back, demanding to know where they had gone, Rose without either her maid or companion. Rose took Harry’s arm and smiled up at him. “Only for a little drive,” she said. “We wanted to be alone.”

Harry’s heart gave a lurch and then he realized that, of course, she was acting.

Nonetheless, it took a great deal of persuading to get permission to go “for a little drive” with Harry the following day with just Becket and Daisy as chaperones.

But Lady Polly finally melted. She saw the way Rose smiled up at the captain and was sure her wayward daughter was in love at last.

They all set out the following morning in high spirits that even the damp mist clouding the day could not dim.

Daisy had won too much at cards to be angry with Rose for not having told her about Jeremy.

When they turned down Oxford High, the mist was hiding the spires and pinnacles of the colleges, and even the top of Cairfax Tower was lost to view.

Daisy and Becket were told to stay in the car while Rose and Harry made their way up the shallow stone steps to Jeremy’s rooms.

“We’re in luck,” said Harry. “He’s not sporting his oak.”

“What does that mean?”

“These are double doors. If the outer door is closed, that’s called sporting the oak and it means you’re either out or do not want visitors.”

Harry knocked and a faint voice called, “Enter.”

Harry held open the door for Rose and followed her in. Jeremy was dressed in gown and mortar board.

“What do you want?” he demanded harshly. “I was just going out.”

“You visited a certain Reg Bolton in Wormwood Scrubs on several occasions just before his release. He is the man who tried twice to kill Lady Rose.”

“I visited him along with other prisoners. I was doing my duty, bringing Christian hope to the suffering.”

“Nobody seems to think of bringing Christian hope to the victims,” said Rose.

“Don’t you think it odd,” pursued Harry, “that after your sister is murdered, a hired assassin called Reg Bolton tries to kill Lady Rose, a man you visited?”

Jeremy’s face was wax-pale and his eyes burned with fury. “Get out of here,” he shouted. “How
dare
you? You are accusing me of killing my own sister.”

“You haven’t heard the end of this,” said Harry. “I am sure the police will want to interview you. Come, Rose.”

“Well, I didn’t expect to get a confession out of him,” said Rose as they walked together across the quadrangle.

“No, the purpose was to rattle him and see if he betrays himself in any way.”

Daisy and Becket sat in the front seat in sulky silence. Becket had sprung the idea on Daisy that maybe they could one day save enough to buy a little pub in the country. Daisy could work behind the bar. Daisy had said furiously that she was not going to sink to be a barmaid. Becket had called her a snob and said she had acquired ideas above her station.

Becket was driving, so Rose and Harry climbed into the back.

They went to the Randolph Hotel for luncheon. Daisy and Becket sat at a separate table, staring angrily at each other in dead silence.

“I think,” said Harry, “that I should go to Scotland Yard on our return and tell Kerridge about these visits.”

“Good idea. I shall come with you.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Why?”

“It’s a man’s world. There are people at Scotland Yard who view my visits with disfavour. They feel Kerridge should not be wasting time with amateurs. The presence of even a beautiful lady like yourself diminishes me.”