The Adventures of Maud West, Lady Detective

by Susannah Stapleton

  None of this could have been made any easier by the fact that the Elliotts were always on the move. According to the addresses on the children’s birth certificates, between 1902 and 1913 the family took in much of south London, before they settled at Pearley. After starting off in Brockley Rise, they moved to Forest Hill, Deptford, Putney, Twickenham, Fulham and Willesden. School records suggested stops in Lewisham and East Sheen as well. In total, I counted eleven addresses in as many years, and there were probably more.

  There were also clues that money was tight. When I located the family in the 1911 census, they didn’t seem to have any home at all. Harry was toiling as a pit hand at a colliery in County Durham where his brother and former partner-in-crime Alfred was an electrician; nine-year-old Cecil was with Harry’s parents in Hackney, and Edith and the rest of the children were staying with her sister Alice and her husband Geoffrey Palmer in Ilford.

  Curiously, there was another guest in Ilford that night: a thirteen-year-old girl called Nellie Barber. Was this the same person as Helen Barber, the housekeeper at Pearley? Another daughter, perhaps, born out of wedlock? Edith would have been around seventeen at the time Nellie was born. Also, thinking of Pearley, where did Fake Charles, the man masquerading as Harry’s brother, fit into all this? Was he one of her children, too?

  Six – seven? eight? – children, an enigmatic housekeeper, an imposter, an invalid husband and a sleuth with a hidden past? Maud West may not have been the spinster lady detective she claimed, but she was more than making up for it now. All I needed was a corpse, and I’d have the makings of a first-rate mystery novel.

  A Poisonous Revenge

  BY MAUD WEST

  A woman client was ushered into my office one day obviously labouring under acute mental excitement. She said she had had a terrible morning and thought someone had been following her. Experience has taught me that one of the most common forms of delusion is the idea that the sufferer is being shadowed, but her intelligent recital of events caused me to find out whether she had actually been tracked to my office.

  I changed into a somewhat loud plus-four suit, with a huge rakish cap, and leaving the office we went down a small side street, turned sharply to the left, and hid in a doorway. A few seconds later hurried footsteps approached and passed on. I took a glance at the individual and described him to my client. ‘That’s the man,’ she exclaimed.

  As we left the building I perceived the same fellow lounging against a lamp-post talking to a taxicab-driver. We there and then determined to have a little fun at his expense. Boarding an omnibus we went to a West End store. We spent the rest of the morning in a West End store, went to a restaurant for lunch, took a tube train and passed away the afternoon at a matinee. After the show I thought we should have no further use for our shadower – I had already studied him carefully – but by a trick of feminine cruelty I changed my mind and decided not to lose him. So we involved him in a taxicab drive to West Kensington to the flat of a friend with whom we took tea. Then we left by the back door. Three hours later I learned by telephone that the weary looking individual was still haunting the vicinity!

  My client had warned me that the people we were dealing with would stick at nothing to gain their ends. Briefly, she had become an innocent victim to a huge scheme of distributing spurious notes. On learning the real facts, she had tried to break away from the gang but they had told her she was too far involved to back out and that if she ‘squealed’ her life would be forfeit. If the gang had definitely traced her to my office, my own life would not be worth much, either.

  Eventually my client was able to substantiate her information in the proper quarter, and I take no credit for bringing the leading spirits of this dangerous gang to book. I learned, however, that two of the gang still at liberty had been charged with the duty of dealing severely with the ‘squealer’ and her inquiry agent.

  I was soon to hear from them. About a week after the ringleaders had been sentenced I was in my office when a visitor was announced. Following my usual practice I scrutinised him through an aperture. Instantly I recognised – my shadower! He had shaved off his moustache and instead of his untidy clothing he was now immaculate. I told my secretary to inform him that I should not be back for some time.

  Half an hour later a loudly dressed woman entered the office and asked for me in a fussy and important manner. She was admitted, only to be followed by the immaculate one.

  To my great surprise he made no attempt at violence. ‘So we meet, Miss West,’ he said in a cultured voice. ‘Let me assure you I am delighted at the meeting.’ Then, with a quick change of tone, he said sharply to his woman companion, ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  Obviously, they had only wished to establish my identity for future reference. That they intended me harm was apparent. I realised I must walk warily and wait.

  To this day I believe those crooks were responsible for the shock I received the next day. Reading my morning papers I was staggered to learn of my woman client’s death. She had been a drug-taker for some time and was found dead in bed from an overdose of veronal.

  Though a verdict of ‘Accidental Death’ was returned at the inquest, I am still certain that she was a victim of foul play. I had been with her on the evening before her death and she then spoke optimistically of the happy times ahead when we had secured the imprisonment of the rest of the gang.

  Soon afterwards I had to go to Sheffield on another case. By some means, which I have never been able to discover, the news reached my enemies. All unknown to myself, they traced me to the hotel where I was staying. I had a slight cold at the time, and awakening during the night with a severe thirst, reached out for the electric light switch, intending to take a drink from the water bottle which stood at my bedside. As I did so the habit of close observation saved my life. Sleepy though I was, I noticed before retiring that the pattern on the inverted tumbler over the water bottle coincided with those at my own home. As I touched the tumbler now I saw that the pattern was different.

  Immediately I became alert. A damp mark on the table showed that the water bottle had been moved half an inch since I had gone to bed, and the tumbler contained a smear of semi-transparent substance. On analysis later it revealed sufficient poison to have removed me very effectively.

  Finger-prints on the glass and water bottle, which were photographed, enabled the police to identify the person responsible for the attempted murder. In fact the culprit, unaware of my discovery, was still staying at the hotel awaiting another opportunity to take my life. He proved to be an ex-convict who had apparently undertaken to remove me from this world in return for a sum of money.

  Wondering whether the gang would leave me alone after this, I returned to London, but soon found them as determined as ever. One afternoon I received a telephone call from a woman who asked whether I could leave town at once with a male assistant. I replied that if the matter was urgent it could be managed. She gave me her name and address, a country house in Lincolnshire, and it was arranged that I should travel by car and be prepared, if necessary, to stay for a few days. Having confirmed the fact that a woman of that name did occupy the house mentioned, I left my office in a saloon car, accompanied by one of my assistants. As I wished to make a call at my home we went by way of Hampstead Heath.

  Suddenly while passing over the Heath my driver accelerated and drew close to the curb. There was a terrific roar from the klaxon of a huge car as it attempted to pass us at top speed. Instinctively we glanced in its direction and as we did so the inside of our own car was lit up by a blinding flash. Before we had time to recover there was a loud, revolver-like report, followed by the shattering of both our windows.

  The car raced on. I discovered that my hands and wrists were badly cut, while my assistant had a deep cut in his face, caused by a splinter of glass. I urged the driver to go in pursuit at all speed. We took such cover as we could on the floor of the car. I concluded as we raced along that the journey on which we were bent was another pl
an of the gangsters to lure us out to the open road. The stipulation that I should take a male assistant was simply a ruse to allay any suspicion.

  As we approached the road junction where we were to branch off, the big car again loomed up alongside. Keeping abreast with us for a few yards, a passenger seated in front menaced my driver with a revolver and signalled him to stop. To gain time he slowed down. The other car did the same, and two men prepared to descend before the cars came to rest.

  At that moment my driver seized his opportunity. Throwing the car into low gear he accelerated, and, changing up quickly, was away. Exactly what happened behind us I can only conjecture. Presumably the men were thrown into the road. We did not stop to inquire, but dashed on at top speed. Just as we were beginning to congratulate ourselves that we were clear at last, I saw through the back of the car two blinding headlights which were rapidly overhauling us.

  At this moment, owing to a dip in the road, we found ourselves facing one of those rolling clouds of fog, so frequently found on the lower levels, while behind us the way was comparatively clear. My driver instinctively applied his brakes in order to take this dip at a safer speed.

  The driver of the gangster’s car, not realising the true reason for it, was apparently disconcerted by the sudden application of our brakes. He swerved quickly to the offside, but, failing to pass between us and a lamp standard in the centre of the road, struck the standard with a terrific crash.

  By this time we had had sufficient excitement for the evening, yet were bound to investigate what had happened. It was evident that we need have no further apprehension. The driver died before the ambulance arrived. The two men in the car presented a ghastly sight, although not seriously injured. By the time they had recovered sufficiently to attend court it was learned that they were wanted on a number of charges, and in the end, to my relief, they were put behind high walls for seven years.37

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sweet Danger

  Always I have had the action, excitement, and adventure which I craved. Without the risks and pitfalls of my profession I could not have carried on. They have made it worthwhile.

  Maud West, 19311

  In 1926, Maud declared: ‘To be shot at in the street is something for which one must be prepared …’2 But was it? Really? It was evident that guns played a significant role in her public persona. The piece announcing her unorthodox ghost-hunting trip in the Sunday Post, for example, had said:

  Miss West’s experiences have taught her to be prepared for any emergency, and she early discovered that an essential accomplishment of a lady detective was to be a proficient revolver shot. By dint of much practice she has become one of the best lady shots in the country.3

  Other detectives, too, made a point of flashing their weapons at the press. Even Kate Easton had said in 1907, ‘The last time I used my revolver was to defend myself from a woman who tried to throw vitriol at me. I pointed it at her and she fled!’ She did, however, add a codicil: ‘Between you and me, it was not loaded.’4

  It was all good publicity, but how likely was it that Maud always kept a little automatic pistol hidden in a drawer in her office and a revolver about her person, as she claimed? Before 1920, as long as one wasn’t obviously drunk or insane, anyone over the age of eighteen could purchase a gun licence by handing over ten shillings at their local Post Office. In 1920, however, the law was tightened up, in part to deal with all the excess weapons in civilian hands after the war. If anyone wanted to keep their gun, they had to convince the police that they had good reason to do so. One of the legitimate reasons was self-defence, but did this extend to private detectives, loathed as they were?

  I was attempting, unsuccessfully, to find out, when it occurred to me that the ranks of private detectives were filled with ex-policemen – and policemen issued the permits. Surely those connections came into play here? I couldn’t see that Maud or Kate would have had any problem wangling a gun licence with the assistance of their male staff.

  As for how and where they might have practised their aim, there were a surprising number of shooting ranges scattered about central London. As well as those run by rifle clubs and the facilities hidden away in government buildings and private institutions, there were places where members of the public could hire a revolver and shoot away to their heart’s content. One such business in St James’s appeared in the press twice in the 1920s due to fatalities on its premises. As the first casualty was an art dealer and the second a man whose identity remained a mystery despite extensive police inquiries, it seemed that anyone could walk off the street for a spot of target practice in their lunch hour.5

  But what about those situations when drawing a revolver would be inappropriate? Considering store detectives’ experience of violent customers, I was sure that female private detectives also arranged some form of self-defence training before they took to the streets. How else could they have dealt with the ‘heaps of annoyances’ from bounders and drunkards that Maud said forced her to hide her sex under male disguise?6 Some of the places they visited – I thought of Kate hiding out in the brothel – must have put them at risk of sexual assault.

  Maud seemed to have acquired a hefty right hook from somewhere. ‘I did hit a man once, and in no less a place than a few yards from Bond Street,’ she admitted in 1926. This display of unladylike behaviour had apparently arisen out of a routine bit of surveillance in which her prey had made a run for it and then grabbed her as she chased him around a corner:

  For a minute I stood panting, taken off my guard, then I did the only thing that seemed possible. I drew back a little, doubled my right arm and landed out with it, punching him as hard as I could in the middle of his somewhat portly figure. He gave a yell of anguish and fury that travelled after me as I ran – ran right across Oxford Street, through the traffic, and promptly lost myself in some of the small streets the other side of that thoroughfare.7

  I still took most of her stories with a pinch of salt, but when it came to minor adventures like these, that pinch was getting smaller the more I learned about private detectives and their work. Yes, Maud had form when it came to stealing ideas from the cinema, but she must have undertaken thousands of inquiries over the course of her career. Although most of those would have turned up little more than minor indiscretions, statistically she must have wandered into dangerous territory enough times to cobble together at least some adventures based on real life.

  Besides, when discussing her work in more serious settings, such as during the debate on women in the police, she downplayed the risks involved but did not deny that they existed. ‘The work is not sensational, as people who get their ideas of a detective’s life from the kinema imagine,’ she said, somewhat hypocritically, in an interview in 1924. ‘There would, of course, be danger in criminal work but very little in ordinary work …’ When danger came, she added, it was ‘rather a relief from monotonous investigations.’8

  She also made it clear in some of her own articles that these brief respites from the dull slog were few and far between:

  Watching and waiting can become dreadfully wearisome, for such things must be very much the same day after day, case after case … And yet – well, it has its big thrills, I admit. I’ve been a detective for nearly twenty years now, and in those years there have been ‘moments’. Moments in which life was hanging by a thread; moments in which quickness of brain might represent success for some big coup.9

  When it came to looking for ‘moments’ that other detectives had experienced, the problem, as ever, lay in the clandestine nature of the work. Private detectives could have been held up at gunpoint every day for all anyone would know. Such cases rarely came to court and, if they did, it was debatable whether anyone could expect any redress. As the Globe commented in 1911 after a case broke down in which a detective had been assaulted by a man he was shadowing, ‘To be followed about and spied upon is provocation greater than human nature can be expected patiently to endure, and only a very strict mor
alist would blame the victim who retaliates with personal violence.’10

  Exasperation did seem to be the most common excuse for assaulting a detective. One soon-to-be divorcee, after finding two on her doorstep, had stabbed at the neck of one with her lit cigarette before slamming the door on his hand. ‘I won’t see you, you dirty snakes in the grass,’ she had hissed before she struck. The court sympathized with her but agreed that she had gone ‘a little too far.’11

  Divorce could arouse violent passions. Even when they weren’t annoying anyone, detectives undertaking divorce inquiries could find themselves caught in the crossfire between warring spouses. In 1920, for example, one detective had accompanied her female client to pick up some clothes from the marital hotel suite and stood by helpless as the husband pulled out a revolver and shot his wife through the head.12

  This led me to wonder if any private detectives had ever been killed on the job. A ghoulish day spent looking through The Times and the British Newspaper Archive using every grisly keyword I could think of, from strangulation to dismemberment, yielded no results. But it did introduce me to the case of Laetitia Toureaux, whose body had been found in a Métro carriage in Paris on 16 May 1937. Her murder had caused a sensation in France, and to a lesser extent in Britain, due to the nature of the crime: not only was the victim young and beautiful, but it was a classic locked-room mystery. Laetitia had stepped into an empty first-class carriage at the Porte de Charenton Métro station just before the train departed at 6.27 p.m. Less than a minute later, the train drew into its next stop at Porte Dorée, where passengers entering the carriage found Laetitia slumped forward, a nine-inch dagger sticking out of her neck.