by T E Kinsey
‘I’m beginning to wish I’d brought a stick. Or one of those long whip things they use for training horses.’
‘A lunging whip,’ said Puddle.
‘Is that what it’s called? Alfie would be black and blue by the end, but he’d bloody well know how to Charleston. Ah, here comes my beloved and his booze-bearing . . . butler? He’s not a butler, is he? Ah well. Seconds out. Round two. I’ll make sure they tip you handsomely.’
She got up and returned to the side of the room where the flunkey had placed jugs of beer, several plates of sandwiches, and a large number of clean glasses.
The Alphabets improved only slightly as the evening wore on, but by the end of the lesson they were at least approaching a basic level of competence. Millie was able to congratulate them on their progress with genuine sincerity, which provoked a certain amount of embarrassed shuffling and ‘Well, I don’t know about that’-ing. She implored them to practise what they had learned before they met again, and they agreed enthusiastically when they realized that meant she would be returning the following week.
‘Thought we might have put you off,’ said Alfie.
‘Nothing of the sort, darling,’ she said. ‘You’ve come along in leaps and bounds in just one evening. Imagine what you could do after a few lessons more.’
‘It’s the leaping and bounding that’ll be our undoing,’ said Bertie.
‘We’ll knock that out of you,’ she replied. ‘The band suggested I bring a lunging whip next time. Keep you in order.’
The Alphabets laughed.
‘Not a bad idea, that,’ said Ernie. ‘I had an aunt who used to train horses. Never had any trouble once she had a whip in her hand.’
‘I knew a chap in the army who liked it when a girl had a whip in her hand,’ said Alfie. ‘I remember there was a bordello in Paris where—’
‘Alfie?’ interrupted Charlie. ‘Do shut up, there’s a good chap.’
‘Right you are, old boy. Right you are. Time and a place for bordello stories. Understood.’
Charlie shook his head.
Still laughing, Millie kissed Charlie goodbye and left the ballroom. The rest of the Alphabets left a few moments later, telling Charlie they’d see him in the bar. He beckoned Mickey over and handed over an envelope. They exchanged a few words before Charlie waved to the band and called, ‘Thank you so very much, ladies and gentlemen. Same time next week if you can bear it?’
They agreed they would, and he left to join his pals.
The Dizzy Heights began to pack up.
‘Fancy a pint?’ said Dunn, as he bent to pick up his bass case.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Skins. ‘Somewhere near the shop, though – let’s get this gear put away first.’
‘Do you mind if I tag along?’ asked Puddle.
‘The more the merrier,’ said Skins. ‘Anyone else? Lamb and Flag for a swift one before last orders?’
They were quite a sociable group, and often went out together when they weren’t working, but at such short notice a couple of them had places to be. There were families to get back to and – in Elk’s case – another gig to play, but Benny and Blanche said they’d love to join them.
‘Delighted to have your company,’ said Skins. ‘You can help push the cart.’
‘There’s always a catch,’ said Benny.
‘You can put your trombone on it, though, mate. Save you carrying it all that way.’
‘I wouldn’t be going all that way if I weren’t going for a drink with you.’
‘You make an excellent point,’ said Skins. ‘Now give us a hand with these temple blocks and we might make it over there before closing time.’
The four of them made short work of the journey back to New Row, and they were in the pub with a drink in front of them in less than three-quarters of an hour.
‘Good health,’ said Benny, raising his rum.
‘Here’s mud in your eye,’ said Dunn.
‘Here’s what in my where?’ said Puddle. ‘Where do you pick up this rubbish?’
‘I’m hip to all the new lingo. I keep my ear to the ground.’
‘Well, quite. That’s where everyone throws their rubbish.’
Glasses were clinked and sips taken.
‘What did you make of that lot, then?’ asked Skins.
‘The Alphabet Gang?’ said Benny with a throaty chuckle. ‘Usual crowd of moneyed fools, if you ask me.’
‘They were, weren’t they. Did . . . did any of them strike you as a bit . . . odd?’
‘They were all plenty odd,’ said Benny. ‘You got any specific oddness in mind?’
Skins gave Dunn an enquiring look.
Dunn shrugged. ‘Don’t look at me, mate. Your call.’
Skins paused a moment in thought. ‘All right,’ he said at length. ‘I’m not betraying any confidences. See, Barty and I know this bloke. Well, know of, is more like it. He’s a copper. We met him years ago out Gloucestershire way, but now he’s working at Scotland Yard. He’s asked us to help him out with something.’
Puddle laughed. ‘You two?’ she said. ‘He must be desperate.’
Skins grinned. ‘I can’t argue with you there, Pudds. He must be.’
‘But why did you agree?’
Skins shrugged.
‘I just went along with it because Skins did,’ said Dunn.
‘And I just went along with it because he did,’ said Skins. ‘Well, that and the fact that another mate of ours seemed keen on the idea.’
‘You two have a lot of mates,’ said Puddle.
‘We’ve been around a while,’ said Skins. ‘But this one is special. She introduced me to my wife.’
‘Very special indeed, then,’ said Benny. ‘What exactly does he want you to help him with?’
Benny Charles spoke slowly and deliberately. His deep voice always seemed to have a smile in it, but there was often a sadness in his eyes as though they had seen more than they wanted to. Which they had. He had served in the British West Indies Regiment and had seen terrible fighting in the Middle East, about which he never spoke. In truth, none of the band spoke of their wartime experiences, bar the odd humorous anecdote, but Benny seemed to his bandmates to have been more deeply affected than the rest of them. Unlike many they knew of, though, it hadn’t driven him to bitterness and anger, but to patience and compassion. He was only twenty-nine years old, but he was known to many as Uncle Benny, a man whose cheerful kindness could make any problem seem trivial.
‘He’s hunting for a deserter. He reckons he’s a member at Tipsy Harry’s and he’s asked us – me and Barty – to keep an eye out for anyone who might fit the bill.’
‘They must have hundreds of members,’ said Puddle. ‘How does he expect you to find one bloke among all those?’
‘Miss Puddle is right,’ said Benny. ‘They must have a hundred or more members at that club. We know what them places is like. How do you expect to find this one man? It’s like trying to find a needle in a big pile of needles, if you ask me.’
‘Our police mate has his reasons for thinking it’s one of the dance class lot,’ said Dunn. ‘Wants us to look for anything odd.’
‘Like I said, I reckon they were all pretty odd. But I always find the English upper classes a bit peculiar. No offence, Miss Puddle.’
Puddle touched his arm. ‘Oh, I’m not upper-class, sweetie. More of a middle-class girl made good. A bit of musical talent opened the doors, and the accent is put on. At least I think it is. I can’t seem to stop doing it now.’
‘Why they looking for a deserter after all this time?’ asked Benny. ‘It all ended nearly seven years ago. We should be putting it behind us now.’
‘Probably should,’ said Skins. ‘But this geezer half-inched twenty-five grand’s worth of sparkle.’
Jaws dropped.
‘Jewellery?’ asked Puddle.
‘Uncut diamonds,’ said Dunn. ‘Smuggled out of Antwerp and on their way to Blighty. Only they never got here because this bloke G
rant pinched them en route.’
‘Wait till you hear the next bit, though,’ said Skins. ‘The superintendent reckons there’s secret treasure hidden at Tipsy Harry’s, and that old Granty joined up to nick it.’
‘Secret treasure as well?’ said Puddle.
‘The Treasure, if you please, of the Mayfair Murderer,’ said Dunn. ‘Some Georgian bloke – founder member of the club – killed a diamond merchant, nicked his stock, and hid it at the club. No one’s been able to find it for a hundred and twenty years, but now there’s a rumour that someone – they’re assuming Grant – has worked out it has something to do with the club regalia that comes out for special events like the dance contest.’
‘How?’ said Benny.
‘How is it connected?’ said Skins. ‘No one knows. No one even knows if it really exists, but the police reckon Grant’s at the club and that’s why the superintendent wants us to be there – to try to flush him out. He’s convinced something’s going to happen on the night of the contest and that’s why he wants us to keep our peepers on the Alphabet Gang.’
‘If he’s so certain something’s going to happen at the dance contest, why involve you?’ asked Puddle. ‘Surely he could just get his men to infiltrate the place on the night and keep an eye on things.’
‘He could fill the place with coppers,’ said Skins, ‘but they wouldn’t know who they were looking for. If they knew that they’d have nicked him already. They need us in there to sniff him out beforehand.’
‘I doubt he could even do that,’ said Dunn. ‘Lack of manpower, see? He’s only got a small team and they can’t be everywhere at once.’
‘Good point. And you know the place by now – absolute labyrinth. Imagine a load of hairy-ar— a load of big old coppers stomping about the place getting under each other’s feet. Grant would have it away on his toes while they were still trying to get from the front hall to the ballroom.’
‘And no one’s even certain he’s there,’ said Dunn. ‘It’s only a tip-off from . . . Actually, where did it come from? He didn’t say, did he?’
‘He didn’t,’ said Skins. ‘The whole thing was very vague as far as I could make out. You could see why he wouldn’t want to put his own men on it.’
‘I see,’ said Puddle. ‘So you’re on the lookout for someone who doesn’t fit in. Someone odd.’
‘In a nutshell,’ said Skins. ‘So who do you reckon?’
Puddle frowned in thought. ‘It was a strong field. Alfie was the fat one?’
‘With the buck teeth. “He could eat an apple through a tennis racket,” as my gran used to say.’
‘He was utterly charming. Quite the mover, but as gormless as anything.’
‘Could he be a wrong’un?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘He can’t dance, that’s all I saw.’
‘Well, unless he’s a cracking good actor,’ said Puddle, ‘it can’t be him. I imagine he has trouble finding a matching pair of socks in the morning, let alone nicking gemstones and disappearing for all these years. Who’s next? Bertie? Was he the one with the gleaming hair?’
‘That was him,’ said Benny. ‘There must have been a whole jar of pomade on that boy’s head.’
‘Well, he wasn’t so goofy,’ said Puddle. ‘He was the one who led them all in, wasn’t he?’
‘He was,’ said Skins. ‘Strangest dancing I’ve ever seen, but he didn’t say much.’
‘Could be him,’ she said. ‘Quiet and unassuming, but sneaky and organized.’
‘Sneaky?’ said Dunn. ‘How do you work that out?’
‘Well . . .’ she said. ‘You know. Sneaking about the club, opening doors, finding the dance class.’
Skins and Dunn laughed. Benny shook his head and took a sip of his rum.
‘You may well laugh,’ she said. ‘But I have a nose for these things. Who’s next. Oh, Charlie. Oh, my goodness. Charlie. He was a dish, darling. Taken, though. But so charming. Every inch the officer and gentleman. Was he an officer, this deserter?’
‘OR,’ said Dunn.
Puddle looked blank.
‘Other Ranks,’ explained Skins. ‘He was a private.’
‘Well, it’s unlikely to be him, then – he’s the real thing. You can’t fake that sort of poise.’
‘If he’s been hiding out all this time,’ said Benny, ‘he’s got to be good. You just said it couldn’t be Alfie because there’s been people after him for years and he’s still on the loose. Whoever it is has got to be sharp.’
‘Well, I shan’t hear of it,’ said Puddle. ‘Charlie is an absolute honey pie. Who was D in their little alphabet?’
‘Danny,’ said Benny. ‘Skinny fellow. Big nose. Shy, like he had something to hide.’
‘There’s your man, then,’ said Puddle, proudly. ‘Trying to stay out of the limelight. Doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. Struggling to keep up the pretence among all those officers. I bet the others were all officers, weren’t they?’
‘No idea,’ said Dunn. ‘We’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure.’
‘And E . . .’ she said. ‘Oh, Ernie. Spectacles. Never could trust a man in spectacles. I had an uncle who wore spectacles. He did time for embezzling from the company accounts. Ernie’s definitely your man.’
‘And everyone else except Alfie,’ said Skins. ‘Because he’s too stupid.’
‘Could be a bluff,’ said Benny with a wicked twinkle. ‘He might just be pretending to be a ha’penny short of a shilling. He could be a criminal mastermind.’
Skins sighed. ‘You’re no help at all, you two. I wish I hadn’t bothered.’
‘Oh, darling,’ said Puddle. ‘Don’t be like that. We’ll help, won’t we, Benjamin? I’ve always wanted to be a sleuth.’
‘We just need to get to know them all a bit better,’ said Skins. ‘Are you really keen to help?’
‘Of course,’ said Puddle.
‘Sure,’ said Benny.
‘Fantastic,’ said Skins. ‘We need another drink and a plan.’
Dunn finished off his pint. ‘I’ll get them,’ he said. ‘Same again?’
Bloomsbury
May 21, 1925
Dearest Flo,
I’m sorry to hear about the concert. Or perhaps I’m not. I’m very much of the opinion that an evening of lederhosen, dirndls, and threatening trombonists in the corridors of a concert hall is right up your alley. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. And it must be true because Queen Gertrude said it, and we know what a reliable character she was.
We’re all jogging along nicely here in Bloomsbury. The children are as mischievous as ever (which I love), as is Ivor (which I also love, if I’m honest). He’s showing no signs of growing old, nor even of growing up.
I’ve been gadding about with my pals as usual. Our bridge night at Caroline Weaving’s house descended into bawdy chaos when Betty Jackson shared a filthy joke her husband had told her and we had to spend five minutes explaining it to Audrey Redder. I swear, some of these women have led the most sheltered lives. As the conversation went on, though, it became clear that others are aware of wild things I’ve never even thought of. I am, it seems, distinctly average.
The charity committee continues to take up much of my time, of course. Do you remember I told you about our plan to take a party of children to Margate for the day? We’re getting closer to making that a reality, though we’re still short of a few adult volunteers to act as chaperones/shepherds/guards. Individually the children are little darlings, but once in a herd they can become a bit unruly. I’m sure it will all work out.
Oh, and I went to the Chelsea Flower Show yesterday with my friend Lilian where we entirely failed to see the King and Queen. According to the newspapers they arrived at ten and stayed for an hour and a half. We arrived at twelve so we didn’t even spot their entourage. I’m sure you’re used to hanging around with royalty, but it would have been rather glamorous and fun to see them. Heigh ho.
To my slight surprise, Ivor and Ba
rty have agreed to help Superintendent Sunderland. I know you said you thought they were ideal for the job, but I wasn’t completely convinced they’d go along with it. I can’t believe it’s the same case I wrote you about all those years ago. And I can’t believe it was true. I thought I’d had a whole lifetime’s worth of excitement after our adventures in Weston, and with an actual war going on a few miles away there was no chance of anything as glamorous as a diamond robbery happening on the road outside our little aid station.
But it was true, and the boys have decided to help. They have absolutely no idea how to go about things, mind you. Since meeting you (when was that – seventeen years ago?) Ivor has always fancied himself as a crime-solving adventurer, but the poor dear really doesn’t have a clue.
They know the ‘new’ members of the club they’re supposed to be looking at from this ‘Alphabet Gang’ they’re playing for, but beyond that, they’re drawing a blank. Ivor is convinced every one of them is far too stupid to be a diamond thief who has evaded the authorities for eight years. But that can’t be right, can it? He likes to believe he treats everyone the same. ‘I just take people as I find ’em, Ells-Bells. Prince or pauper. No prejudice here.’ But I still think he has a bit of a blind spot when it comes to the upper classes – he assumes they’re all idiots. To be fair, he might have a point in a lot of cases, but not all of them.
They need . . . I don’t know how to say it . . . filtering? Sifting? We need some systematic way of working out who’s who. Who’s a genuine idiot and who’s a cunning criminal on the run. Any tips from the experts?
And then there’s this mystery treasure story. The boys are enormously skeptical but I think there might be something in it. There’s no smoke without fire, as they say. Any tips there on finding out more about it? You must have contacts at the newspapers. Can you get someone to look in the archives and see if they can find out more about this Hatton Garden robbery and the Aristippus Club member who was hanged for it?
I’m going to try to work out a way of gaining access to the club on my own account to see what I can find out. I’m not going to ask Ivor if he can pick locks quite yet, but it might come to that.
