The Burning Issue of the Day Page 18

  We turned and left.

  The journey home was as uneventful and swift as the journey there, and we were back at the house before eight o’clock with an evening of quiet reading in prospect. At least, it would be quiet until Lady Hardcastle began to get fidgety and started playing the piano.

  Miss Jones had left a delicious stew in the oven, topped with the fluffiest dumplings known to humankind. I vowed to ask Lady Hardcastle if she might consider giving her cook a rise. Whatever she was paying her was certainly not enough. I dished up two hearty portions and took them through to the dining room.

  ‘Wine?’ I asked as I put down the plate in front of her.

  She made a whining noise. ‘Like that?’ she said with a self-satisfied grin.

  ‘Yes, exactly like that,’ I said. ‘And would you like a glass of wine to drink?’

  ‘Something robust and hearty,’ she said, ‘to match this delicious-looking stew. Is there any of that Saint-Émilion left?’

  ‘A couple of bottles, I think.’

  ‘Bring them both,’ she said. ‘We’ve been uncommonly abstemious lately – I think we deserve a treat.’

  ‘Would you like me to decant it?’

  ‘There’s no time for that. Just bring it and we’ll glug it straight into the glass as though we were at a café in the backstreets of Bordeaux itself. We can run the dregs through a tea-strainer if the sediment bothers you.’

  ‘You are a lady of class and refinement,’ I said, and went off to the cellar.

  The food was delicious, and the wine close to perfect. A mood of silliness and tomfoolery began to set in soon after the second bottle had been opened and I abandoned my plans for a relaxing evening with a book. We had begun composing limericks when the telephone rang.

  ‘A freshly minted fiver for the girl who can suggest what the man called Nathaniel might have been doing with the spaniel,’ said Lady Hardcastle to my retreating back as I went out into the hall to answer it.

  It was Lady Bickle.

  ‘Hello, Florence, dear,’ she said. I wasn’t sure when I’d become Florence rather than Miss Armstrong, but it betokened a certain level of acceptance that I found oddly pleasing. ‘How are your enquiries getting along?’

  ‘Not too badly, my lady,’ I said. ‘We paid a visit to the Crane household to see Mrs Crane this evening.’

  ‘And how was she?’

  ‘Rude and with an unwarrantedly high opinion of her own importance,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I think I met her at something Ben dragged me along to. If I’m thinking of the same person, she has a paradoxical face.’

  ‘How’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s beautiful to look at and one could stare at it in rapt admiration for hours, but as soon as it begins to speak one’s strongest desire is to slap that gorgeous face until her teeth rattle.’

  ‘That’s the one,’ I said with a chuckle. ‘But once we’d overcome the urge to punch her, she did tell us what we needed to know. Crane isn’t our man. He was at home all night.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ she said. ‘I rather wanted it to be him. Ah, well. I, meanwhile, met Jimmy Stansbridge. I stood him supper and a glass or two of the club’s least offensive red, in return for which he blushingly told me what he’d been up to when he disappeared from the club that night.’

  ‘And what was that?’ I asked.

  ‘He was visiting what my dear mother was wont to call a “fallen woman”. There is, I now know, an establishment in a house in Cotham that provides “certain services” to discerning gentlemen.’

  ‘Do you have the address?’

  ‘I do, yes. Why?’

  ‘We’ll pop along and ask her if she can corroborate his story,’ I said. ‘Did he give you her name?’

  ‘Molly,’ she said. ‘But you’re not going to, are you? Not really?’

  ‘Of course. Most of them are sweethearts if you treat them with respect. The madams can get a bit boisterous, but none of them has ever managed to hurt us. In our previous line of work, we always found brothels to be an excellent source of intelligence. They had a healthy disrespect for the regular forces of law and order, but they were always very helpful to us. I’ll tell Lady Hardcastle and we’ll pop round there and have a word.’

  ‘Tell Lady Hardcastle what?’ said a loud voice behind me. ‘Is that Georgie Bickle?’

  ‘It is, my lady,’ I said. ‘Would you like to talk to her?’

  ‘Rather,’ she said.

  ‘Lady Hardcastle has materialized from the dining room,’ I said into the telephone. ‘Thank you for the information, it was lovely talking to you.’

  ‘And to you, dear,’ said Lady Bickle.

  ‘I’ll pass you over,’ I said, and handed the earpiece to Lady Hardcastle.

  I left them to chat and returned to the wine.

  She poked her head through the door a few minutes later.

  ‘I think we should withdraw to the withdrawing room,’ she said. ‘Could you rustle up some cheese and biscuits? And perhaps some port for when the wine runs out. We need to set some of these limericks to music.’

  We retired to the drawing room with our cheese and our booze and had a hilarious evening singing slanderous songs about the men in Brookfield’s notebook.

  The next morning we received a surprise visit. Inspector Sunderland was ‘just passing’ and thought he’d ‘drop in’ to see how we were getting on. I settled him in the drawing room with the crime board while I enjoined Miss Jones to put a pot of coffee on. Of Lady Hardcastle there was no sign.

  ‘Has she passed this way?’ I asked.

  ‘Lady H?’ said Miss Jones. ‘She went out to her studio about half an hour ago. She asked what sort of hat I thought a hedgehog might wear and was out the door before I could answer.’

  ‘What sort of hat did you choose?’

  ‘I always thought hedgehogs was fussy little fellows. Quite prim. I saw him in a little waistcoat and bowler hat. But by the time I’d thought of it, I heard the orangery door slammin’.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll go and fetch her. We really need a telephone out there, you know. It’s a pleasure to nip out there in the summer, but this time of year you can freeze to death before you’re halfway across the garden.’

  And so it was that three minutes later, with the lady of the house in tow, I returned to the warmth of the kitchen to try to get some life back into my frozen fingers.

  ‘I put the inspector in the drawing room,’ I said. ‘Do you want to change before you sit down for coffee?’

  She looked down at her grubby overalls. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He’s a copper, after all. I’m sure he’s seen worse.’

  I left her to go and greet our visitor while I helped Miss Jones put a tray together.

  I found them a few moments later, standing by the crime board. Inspector Sunderland was pointing with the stem of his pipe.

  ‘So Crane and Stansbridge are in the clear,’ he said. ‘While Hinkley and Morefield alibi each other.’

  ‘That’s the simplified version, yes,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Although Stansbridge’s alibi isn’t confirmed yet – we need to see the tart he spent the evening with.’

  ‘Do I want to know about that?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Do you already know about the brothel on Cotham Road?’

  ‘We’re well aware of the establishment,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘We turn a blind eye. Partly because it’s one of the more orderly of the city’s disorderly houses, but mostly because we’re likely to run into any number of civic dignitaries and senior members of the Force there, enjoying the facilities.’

  ‘That’s all right, then. We’ll be visiting Molly later. At some point we need to talk to Gordon Horden, too, but I’m not sure when to do that.’

  ‘He’s a nice old chap,’ said the inspector.

  ‘You know him as well?’

  ‘I’m a rozzer, my lady. It’s my job to know everyone.’

  ‘Quite so, Inspector, dear, quite so.’
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  ‘There’s coffee here,’ I said. ‘And some of Miss Jones’s ginger cake.’

  ‘Good morning, Miss Armstrong,’ said the inspector. ‘I’m so sorry, I hadn’t noticed you there.’

  ‘That’s how it always is for us poor serving girls. Ignored while the toffs talk about important things as though we weren’t there.’

  ‘You poor love,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Is there anything you wish to add now that we’ve noticed you?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘I think you’ve got it pretty much in hand. It’s all a bit frustrating, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘How’s that?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘Well, all we have to go on are Mr Brookfield’s notes, and the only suspects they’ve given us so far seem to be non-starters.’

  ‘Welcome to the world of policing,’ he said. ‘Most of the time we don’t even get a handy list of potential suspects. You’re doing well, I should say. And you’ve helped the late Mr Brookfield shine a light underneath a couple of the city’s grubbier rocks. I shall be looking into the business affairs of Mr Redvers Hinkley myself in due course. As for Councillor Morefield . . . well. I dare say there’ll be plenty of fine upstanding members of the community finely standing up in my way, but his dealings need a fair bit of scrutiny, too.’

  ‘At least something good will come out of it,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps. But it does lead me on to the main reason for my visit. Did you say there was ginger cake?’

  ‘Miss Jones’s finest,’ I said. ‘Is that the main reason for your visit?’

  ‘Of course not. But I am very partial to a bit of ginger cake. May I?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  We sat down and waited for the inspector to finish his mouthful.

  ‘Are you aware of an organization known as the Men’s League for Opposing Woman Suffrage?’ he asked eventually. ‘And my compliments to Miss Jones – this is an excellent cake.’

  ‘We’ve heard of them,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Georgie Bickle tells us that your favourite councillor is their local leader.’

  ‘Nathaniel Morefield is the branch chairman, yes,’ he said. ‘They hold their meetings on Tuesday evenings and one of our lads went along last night. We don’t see eye to eye on political matters, but we get along well enough and he sought me out this morning. He knows of my acquaintanceship with you—’

  ‘Friendship by now, I hope,’ interrupted Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘You’re very kind,’ he said. ‘But knowing of our connection, he felt he ought to tell me that you were mentioned by name at the League’s meeting.’

  ‘Me?’ she said. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Both of you. The meeting was told that you’re on some sort of quest to discredit members of the League and that they should all be on their guard.’

  ‘I say, how exciting. And slightly slanderous.’

  ‘Were any threats made?’ I asked.

  ‘They’d not be stupid enough to make actual threats at a minuted public meeting, but my colleague did overhear some of the less thoughtful members discussing ways they might “settle your hash”. Did I understand right – did you have a set-to with some students recently?’

  ‘There was a small altercation,’ I said.

  ‘So that was you,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I thought it must have been. It was all over the station – the lads thought it was side-splitting. The boy was known to us, you see. He’d been given a stern talking-to on a number of occasions for coming the bully-boy and it was a genuine pleasure to find out that he’d been knocked on his backside by a five-foot woman.’

  ‘I didn’t just knock him down,’ I said. ‘I knocked him out. Although if he wants to press charges, I was nowhere near the Victoria Rooms last Monday night, I’ve never socked a student on the jaw, and I have no idea what he’s talking about.’

  ‘There’s no fear of that,’ he said. ‘But the story has made its way to the League and there seemed to my colleague to be one or two who might want to teach you a lesson.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s much they can teach me,’ I said, ‘but thank you for the warning.’

  He turned to Lady Hardcastle. ‘I don’t doubt she’s right,’ he said, ‘but they might think you’re an easier target. You should both be careful.’

  ‘We shall, inspector, dear, we shall.’

  We tried to persuade Inspector Sunderland to stay for lunch but he declined. There were, apparently, other cases to be dealt with and he shouldn’t really have been in Littleton Cotterell at all. So we ate alone and tried to decide when best to visit the Cotham ‘fancy house’.

  ‘The brothels in London always seemed to have a vibrant lunchtime trade,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘So I expect we’d not be too unwelcome in the mid-afternoon, once the lunchtime rush has died down and before the evening trade picks up.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan to me,’ I said. ‘Do you remember that place in Mayfair where we cornered that chap from the German embassy? That was busy at eleven in the morning.’

  ‘I do. That was a fun morning, I must say. I’m sure they could have held a cabinet meeting there with the number of senior politicians we saw. I’m not certain it was typical, though. So what say we get there for about four? That should give the girls time to be finished with the lunchtime rush, but still be early enough not to disrupt their evening business.’

  And so that’s what we did. Cotham Road was a beautifully wide thoroughfare with ample space to park the Rover and still leave room for the traffic to pass. The address we’d been given was a perfectly ordinary house on a respectable residential street. We approached the door and rang the bell.

  Almost instantly, the door was answered by a fashionably dressed woman of about Lady Hardcastle’s age. Her tone was polite, but wary.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘My name is Lady Hardcastle, and this is Miss Florence Armstrong. We’re here on a delicate matter – or potentially delicate, at any event. Would it be possible to talk privately inside?’

  The house’s proprietress looked us up and down while she considered the request. ‘Very well,’ she said at length. ‘Come in. But I should warn you before we begin that I have no idea where your husband is.’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ said Lady Hardcastle brightly. ‘He was buried in Shanghai a little over ten years ago. At least I assume he was. I was unable to attend the funeral.’

  The woman led us past the house’s drawing room, where I caught a glimpse of a couple of similarly well-dressed young ladies sitting on a huge sofa. They were chatting amiably and gave me a little wave as we passed by. We proceeded down a newly painted passage to a small parlour near the back of the house.

  ‘Tea?’ said the woman after inviting us to sit.

  ‘If you’re having one, then yes, please. But don’t go to any trouble,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ said the woman. She pulled a bell rope beside the fireplace and a maid arrived moments later. With the tea ordered, the woman sat down opposite us.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I don’t seem to have introduced myself. I’m Jemima Tooks, but most people call me Madam Jemima.’

  ‘How do you do?’ said Lady Hardcastle and I in unison.

  ‘You’ll forgive me if this sounds impertinent,’ said Madam Jemima, ‘but if you two are ever looking for work, please come and see me first. I have a number of regulars who would just love you.’

  ‘That’s most flattering,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We shall most certainly bear it in mind.’

  ‘But that’s not why you’re here,’ said Madam Jemima. ‘And you’re not looking for an errant husband . . . so what brings you to my door? Do say you’re not here to save my girls.’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But we would like to speak to one of them if she’s willing.’

  ‘Oh? And who might that be?’

  ‘The name we’v
e been given is Molly.’

  ‘We certainly have a Molly. What do you want with her?’

  Quickly and succinctly, Lady Hardcastle outlined the case so far. Starting with the fire, and Lizzie Worrel’s arrest, and ending with our disappointing list of suspects and the Honourable Jimmy’s alibi. She finished just as the maid arrived with the tea tray.

  ‘For obvious reasons I have to steer well clear of politics,’ said Madam Jemima. ‘Imagine the red faces and flustered mumblings I’d have to endure if I met any of my regulars at the meeting hall. But I’ve made some discreetly anonymous contributions to the WSPU coffers. If there’s anything I can do to help free an innocent suffragette from gaol, you have my support. But I can’t compel any of my girls to help you. They’re “independent contractors” and they’re under my protection, not my orders. I shall tell Molly what you told me and she can make up her own mind whether she wishes to speak to you. I can do no more than that.’

  ‘We can ask no more of you,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘If you don’t mind waiting here on your own for a few minutes, I’ll go upstairs and speak to her. If she agrees, I’ll send her down. I should warn you of something, though . . .’

  ‘Oh?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Molly is one of our specialists. Don’t be confused by her dress.’

  She left, closing the door behind her.

  ‘I wonder what that might mean,’ I said once we were properly alone.

  ‘It could be anything,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’m sure I saw one girl in the Mayfair house dressed as a pantomime cow.’

  We didn’t have too long to wonder before the door opened again. A bespectacled governess entered the room, her high-collared blouse stiffly starched and her boots clicking menacingly on the flagstone floor of the parlour.

  ‘Hello, my loves,’ said a warm, friendly voice, completely at odds with the stern appearance. ‘Madam Jemima says I might be able to help you.’