The Burning Issue of the Day

by T E Kinsey

  ‘Did you hear about the fire last week, down on Thomas Street?’ she said.

  ‘I did. Terrible business. Wasn’t it one of your chaps who died?’

  ‘It was,’ she said. ‘Christian Brookfield.’

  ‘Terrible. Terrible. It was a suffragette who set the fire, wasn’t it? Which rather proves my point, don’t you think? Too much emotion swirling around in a woman’s brain. Not enough reason. No thought for the consequences of her actions, d’you see? A man died all because she wanted to get some attention for her “cause”.’

  ‘Did you know Christian Brookfield?’ said Lady Hardcastle, ignoring these last remarks.

  ‘No, I can’t say as I did.’

  ‘Odd that,’ she said. ‘He knew you. Or knew of you, at any rate.’

  ‘Lots of people know of me, my dear. I have coffee houses all over the city.’ He waved his arms expansively to indicate the extent of his magnificent empire.

  ‘Perhaps that explains it. But he knew of your wife, too.’

  ‘Again, lots of people know of my charming lady wife,’ he said, slightly less comfortably.

  To judge from Miss Caudle’s expression, she wasn’t too happy with the direction the conversation was going, either. She tried to change tack.

  ‘What are your views on the growing importance of the docks at Avonmouth?’ she asked hurriedly. ‘Is it a boon to your business to be able to dock larger ships, or is the distance from the city too much of an inconvenience?’

  ‘Well, I have to say—’ he began, but Lady Hardcastle wasn’t to be put off.

  ‘You see,’ she said, looking down at her notebook as though for confirmation, ‘Mr Brookfield was working on a story that would reveal that your charming lady wife was having . . . “intimate relations” is the polite phrase, I believe. Yes, intimate relations with someone who most definitely, without wishing to put too fine a point on it, wasn’t you. Do you have a statement for the press?’

  In the silence that followed, I began to be concerned that Mr Crane might be the one to draw a pistol. His face went an entertaining shade of purple – the first genuinely interesting thing he had done all morning – and his knuckles were white as he grasped the edge of the table.

  ‘This interview is over,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Miss Caudle, get this woman out of my shop. I shall be having words with your editor.’

  Miss Caudle stood, but Lady Hardcastle remained seated. ‘So you didn’t kill him, then? To kill the story? Or maybe you hired someone to do it for you?’

  ‘Out!’ he bellowed, his composure finally deserting him.

  Trying not to laugh, I followed her out of the shop, protecting her back lest he decide to lash out. The few other customers looked on in scandalized shock or unabashed curiosity, according to their character. The staff cowered in the background, clearly worried that the managing director might take out his anger upon them.

  Outside on the pavement, Miss Caudle was equally livid.

  ‘What on earth did you do that for?’ she demanded.

  ‘Do what, dear?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘You know perfectly well what. We’ll never get the truth out of him now. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t sue us for slander.’

  ‘Sue me, dear. You were a model of journalistic professionalism – I was the one who levelled baseless and defamatory accusations of wrongdoing.’

  Miss Caudle seemed unimpressed, but said nothing.

  ‘I understand that in your line of work it never pays to unnerve people so much that they put up the shutters and stop talking to you,’ continued Lady Hardcastle. ‘I see the need for blandishments and charm, for lulling them into trusting you and then revealing that which they might otherwise have preferred to keep hidden. But my own experience – and I’m afraid it’s extensive and often disagreeable experience – is that murderers aren’t nearly so susceptible to flattery. Sometimes the only way to get results is to poke the hornets’ nest with a good, stout stick and see what happens.’

  ‘What happens,’ said Miss Caudle, ‘is that you get badly stung by a gang of extremely angry hornets.’

  ‘Perhaps, dear, but that’s a risk we take. The positive thing – from our point of view, at least – is that angry people make mistakes. If you rattle a guilty man, especially a man like Crane, he’s liable to flap about in a panic and try to cover his tracks. That’s when you can catch him out.’

  ‘A man like Crane?’

  ‘A man like Crane,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘He likes to paint himself as a captain of industry – or a captain of commerce, at any rate – but in reality he’s a tedious little man obsessed with coffee. He’s all fuss and bluster and he could no more cause trouble for you or me than he could flap his arms and fly to the Americas to check on his precious plantations.’

  Miss Caudle had calmed slightly and took a moment to consider Lady Hardcastle’s words.

  ‘I reluctantly concede,’ she said at length, ‘that you might very well have a point. I’ve done some research of my own and your past exploits as an “agent of the Crown” aren’t nearly so hush-hush as you tried to make out. At least, you’ve been a good deal freer with your stories when talking to other people than you were with me. I bow to your superior knowledge of the behaviour of criminal types. And your assessment of Mr Crane is pretty accurate, too – a tedious little man, indeed. But if you’re going to do anything like that again, do please let me know in advance.’

  ‘Right you are, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle brightly. ‘Would you care for some lunch?’

  ‘I’d say that was the least you could do,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘Come on, I know just the spot. I hope you brought plenty of money.’

  Miss Caudle’s chosen luncheon venue was the same Bristol hotel recommended to us by Lady Farley-Stroud when we had first moved to the West Country. The head waiter made a fuss of pretending to remember Lady Hardcastle rather better than he actually did, and showed us to a table near a large window, from where I was able to watch the city passing by.

  ‘So, tell me, Miss Caudle,’ said Lady Hardcastle once we were all seated, ‘how did you come to inhabit the murky world of journalism?’

  Miss Caudle regarded her coolly for a moment, as though trying to decide whether to engage in such personal chit-chat with a comparative stranger.

  ‘I’m the youngest of four, and the only girl. You know how it goes: eldest son inherits, second son goes into the army, third son the clergy, and any stray daughters you happen to have lying around get married off as soon as possible, preferably to someone else’s eldest son so you don’t have to pay for her upkeep.’

  ‘And you didn’t fancy that?’

  ‘I should say not. So I struck a bargain with them. If I could support myself, they were to stop nagging at me to marry the first chinless oaf who came along, and leave me to make my own choices.’

  ‘How did they react to that?’

  ‘Papa laughed in my face and Mama wept real tears for her lost daughter. So I told them what they could do to themselves – with suggestions as to the appropriate and most effective implements – and set off to the city to seek my fortune.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But why the newspapers?’

  ‘I was working as a waitress – here as a matter of fact – and sharing digs with a girl who was a secretary at the Bristol News. One day she told me that they were looking for someone to cover “society things”. They wanted someone who spoke the language, was acquainted with a few of the right people, and would know what shoes to wear while interviewing a duchess. To cut a tedious story frustratingly short, I got the job.’

  ‘And your parents?’

  ‘Are mortified, yes. Things haven’t gone quite so well as they’d hoped with the others, either, it should be noted. Brother Number One is a gullible drunk who managed to lose an absolute packet on some stupidly ill-advised investments. Brother Number Two was cashiered shortly after Spion Kop for “reasons we don’t talk about” and is
now an assistant bank manager somewhere dreary. Brother Number Three has been posted to a mission in Burma after he was caught carrying on with the wife of the chairman of the parish council. There was also talk of him pinching money from the collection plate, but they couldn’t prove it. One would think that my own life being entirely free of scandal would be cause for celebration, but apparently nothing brings more shame on a family than one’s twenty-seven-year-old spinster daughter working at a “trade”.’

  ‘You seem to be making a go of it, though,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘What is it they say? “Living well is the best revenge.” You made a splendid job of covering our moving picture whatnot and the attendant unpleasantness last year, after all. It’s not as though you’re stuck on the society column.’

  ‘Indeed, no. I try to involve myself in more serious stories whenever I can. It has been pointed out to me that kinematograph films and music hall performances are no more “serious” than the lives and loves of the landed gentry, but I stand firm in my belief that they’re both of a great deal more interest to a great many more people. And if I can report the arrest and trial of Brookfield’s real killer, they’ll have to take notice of me.’

  ‘It seems our short-term ambitions are aligned, then,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We wish to get to the bottom of all this, too. Shall we be able to form an alliance, do you think? Reach some sort of accord?’

  ‘We two?’ said Miss Caudle with a snort that bordered on the derisive. ‘Working together?’

  ‘We three, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Armstrong and I come as a set.’

  Miss Caudle looked at me appraisingly. ‘Ah, yes, the redoubtable Florence Armstrong. You get fewer mentions in the cuttings, but you’re an ever-present figure in the background. I’m still not entirely clear on what your role is, but I’m sure you’ll come in handy if one of us needs anything mended.’

  I took another bite of my pheasant but said nothing.

  ‘You’ll know when you need her,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘and when you do, you’ll be glad she was there. For now, I take it you’re willing to transcribe and translate Mr Brookfield’s notebook? We shall take care of the legwork. I think we’ve established our credentials in that regard.’

  ‘You certainly know how to needle people, there’s no doubt about that. Then again, from the little I know about you I imagine you would have been imprisoned, hanged, or left dead in an alley if you didn’t possess certain abilities. How many of the stories about you are true?’

  ‘I don’t know which ones you’ve heard, but I should say no more than half.’

  ‘You owe me more of an answer than that,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘I’ve laid my family’s shame bare, the least you can do is fill in a little background.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. Well, now. My late husband was a diplomat, and I worked alongside him as a . . . well, as a spy, I suppose one could say. He was the respectable face of British international relations and I poked around in dark corners for the information our enemies would rather keep to themselves. Our friends, too, on more than one occasion. I needed an assistant, so I recruited my lady’s maid. That’s the heart of it.’

  ‘When did your husband die?’ said Miss Caudle. ‘Forgive me for being so blunt.’

  ‘In ninety-nine, in Shanghai. He was murdered by a German agent who thought he was the spy. Armstrong and I fled inland and crossed China on foot. We met a Shaolin monk on the way, who taught Armstrong some impressive fighting skills to go with her knife-throwing prowess – her father was a circus performer, you know. We found our way to Burma, bartered some of our few remaining possessions for a boat, and sailed down the Irrawaddy to Rangoon. From there, a boat to Calcutta, where we landed in, what, spring 1901?’

  ‘1901,’ I confirmed.

  ‘Quite so,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘The queen had passed not long before and we found ourselves agents of the new king. We stayed in India for another two years, working on this and that with an old friend of mine, Major George Dawlish. Lovely chap. Family friend. I’d known him since we were children.’

  ‘What sort of work were you engaged in?’ asked Miss Caudle, her journalistic instincts awakened.

  ‘Oh, you know, “this and that”, as I said. We unmasked a South American merchant as a saboteur – The Poisoned Banana Tree Affair, I think the press called that one.’

  I nodded in confirmation.

  ‘We foiled the attempted assassination of a minor member of the Russian royal family who was visiting Calcutta. That was terribly exciting and all very last minute. By the time we worked out what the plot entailed, the assassin was already on top of a building with a high-powered air rifle pointed at the spot where the carriage was due to stop. I couldn’t get a clear shot at him so it was left to Armstrong to sprint up a staircase and tackle him in person. You got him with a knife, didn’t you, dear?’

  ‘From ten yards,’ I said. ‘Back of the neck. Died instantly.’

  Dinah Caudle smiled uneasily, and I hoped she was beginning to regret her ‘if we need anything mending’ comment.

  ‘What else did we do there?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘There was that Austro-Hungarian spy who tried to steal those military plans from the Governor General’s offices,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yes, “Der Mungo” he called himself – “The Mongoose”.’

  ‘He left empty handed,’ I said.

  ‘In more ways than one, as I recall. He left India without the papers and with two fewer fingers than he had arrived with. So that was India. We came home in 1903 and based ourselves in London. We carried on in the same line of work, but after another five years of people shooting at us and trying to strangle us in the dark – well, trying to strangle me, at any rate; I don’t think anyone managed to get the drop on Armstrong – I decided enough was enough and we decamped to Gloucestershire. The rest, I think, you know.’

  ‘If even half of that is true, I’d be a fool not to enlist your help,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘And that’s before I add half the other things I’ve heard.’

  ‘An equal partnership, then,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We share all our intelligence, and work together to free Lizzie Worrel and see the real murderer convicted.’

  ‘Always assuming Lizzie Worrel actually is innocent,’ I added.

  ‘Of course,’ they both said together.

  ‘To justice,’ said Lady Hardcastle, raising her glass.

  ‘And votes for women,’ I said.

  ‘And pudding,’ said Miss Caudle, raising her own glass. ‘I happen to know they do a rather splendid jam roly-poly. With custard.’

  ‘Three of those, then, please,’ said Lady Hardcastle to a passing waiter.

  We left Miss Caudle to get back to her vital work documenting the lives of the well-to-do, and returned to the Rover. The motor car started first time and I walked round to the driver’s side.

  ‘I only had one glass of wine,’ complained Lady Hardcastle as I gave her my hardest stare and ordered her out of the driving seat.

  ‘You and Miss Caudle shared the best part of two bottles,’ I said. ‘And we agreed that we don’t drive if we’ve been drinking. Remember Sir Hector’s story about some chap he knew being eaten by a tiger?’

  ‘I think he was mauled, dear, but there are no tigers in Bristol. Well, in the Zoological Gardens, perhaps, but they’re unlikely to be able to reach me from there.’

  ‘He was mauled,’ I said, ‘because he fell off his bicycle. And he fell off his bicycle because . . . ?’

  ‘Because he was, in Hector’s own words, “completely pie-eyed”. But I’m just mildly squiffy.’

  ‘Don’t make me hurt you, my lady,’ I said.

  She harrumphed, and struggled clumsily into the passenger seat.

  ‘Shall we stop at the zoo?’ I asked. ‘It’s a nice afternoon for a stroll among the animals.’

  ‘Zoos make me melancholy, dear, you know that. Perhaps we should call at the shop, instead. We can apprise Georgie of our progress.�
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  ‘What do you make of Lady Bickle?’ I asked. ‘I can’t quite fathom her.’

  ‘She’s a bit of a closed book to me, too. As I said before, she’s a good deal younger than one would expect the wife of an eminent surgeon to be, but one can’t read much into that. We’ve not really spent much time with her, though, so other than that trifling observation I’ve nothing really to offer.’

  We mused silently on the enigma that was Georgina, Lady Bickle, as the little Rover chugged and wheezed its way up Park Street.

  ‘Have you written to Lord Riddlethorpe yet?’ I asked.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ she said. ‘He replied at once saying that, quite coincidentally, he had been toying with the idea of building a motor car with two seats, an enclosed driving compartment, and powered by one of his racing engines. He went on for at least another page about chassis and suspension configurations, but engineering was never my strong suit. The long and the short is that he’ll be sending me some drawings soon and is keen for us to act as his test drivers. He seems to be thinking of building more of them and selling them to enthusiasts. We’ll get a discount in return for our detailed review. And because you saved his sister’s life. Obviously.’

  ‘I look forward to it,’ I said. ‘Oh, bother.’

  There were two carts on Queen’s Road outside the WSPU shop. Their horses had been given nosebags and were contentedly munching on their afternoon tea. They were going to be there for a while.

  ‘I’ll have to park round the corner near the Bickles’,’ I said.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It’s not as though it’s far.’

  I put the Rover in the same spot we’d used on Saturday and we prepared for the walk round the corner.

  Beattie Challenger was alone in the shop.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘We were wondering when we might hear from you. How are things progressing?’

  ‘Passably well, thank you,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Did you make any progress with poor Mr Brookfield’s notebook?’