by T E Kinsey
So we got Lady Bickle togged up and Lady Hardcastle showed her the controls. When she was happy that she understood, I started the engine for them, and they sputtered off down the lane towards the village. I could still hear Lady Bickle’s whoops of joy even once they had disappeared from view.
Chapter Ten
On Monday morning Lady Hardcastle received a telephone call from Dinah Caudle inviting us both to meet her once more at the WSPU shop. She had one or two things to sort out, she said, but she would see us there at ten o’clock.
We arrived shortly after ten and were met by Lady Bickle, Beattie Challenger, and Marisol Rojas. Of Miss Caudle herself, there was no sign.
While we waited for her, we brought Miss Challenger and Señorita Rojas up to date with all the latest news on the case. Lady Bickle recounted the tale of discovering the Honourable Jimmy’s half-alibi and Lady Hardcastle explained that Oswald Crane was in a similar position.
‘So you haven’t managed to speak to the other two again?’ asked Miss Challenger.
‘No,’ I said. ‘There doesn’t seem much point in trying Hinkley again – he’s already said he was working late all that week – and we’ve not yet managed to get an appointment to see Councillor Morefield.’
‘We’re hoping that’s why Miss Caudle asked to meet us,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘She and Armstrong are going to talk to him about a charity do that he’s attending. They’re going to try to establish his whereabouts on the twenty-fifth while they’re at it.’
‘Do you suspect these men?’ asked Marisol.
‘Yes, and no,’ said Lady Hardcastle in Spanish. ‘Mr Brookfield suspected that they were linked to each other and his investigation links them all to him. Whether one or more of them is involved in his death, we have yet to discover.’
‘Thank you,’ said Marisol, still in Spanish.
At that moment, the bell above the door gave its merry tinkle as Dinah Caudle came in.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ she said as she closed the door behind her. ‘Sorry I’m late. My flat was burgled last night and I had to wait in for the police. I thought they’d be quicker.’
‘Goodness,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Were you there at the time? Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, thank you. I’d been away for the weekend visiting an old chum in London. My housekeeper doesn’t live in so she was safe, too. Got back this morning to find the lock busted and the door swinging open.’
‘That’s awful,’ said Miss Challenger. ‘Was anything taken?’
‘A few obvious things – a pair of silver candlesticks, a darling little enamelled box with a few sentimental bits and bobs in. It was hard to tell if anything more had gone, though – the place had been thoroughly and messily ransacked. I left a detective fussing about looking for fingerprints while my housekeeper nagged him about the mess he was making. I’ll know more when she’s tidied up.’
‘What about Mr Brookfield’s notebook?’ asked Miss Challenger. ‘That’s not gone, has it?’
‘No, thank goodness,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘I took it with me for something to do on the train. Although I can’t see that a burglar would have taken it even if it had been out on the drawing room table. He’d be more likely to take my jewels. Though if he did, he’d be disappointed – I doubt he’d get five bob for the lot. I’ve never been one for baubles.’
‘It could have been much worse,’ said Marisol. ‘Just think of what might have happened if you had been there with the robbers in your house.’
‘She was in no danger,’ said Miss Challenger. ‘The burglar obviously waited until she was out. It’s not like back home in Timbuktu with bandits on every street corner.’
‘Timbuktu is in West Africa,’ said Marisol crossly. ‘Not South America. I am sure you pretend to be ignorant to annoy me.’
‘It’s all the same to me,’ said Miss Challenger. ‘It’s all foreign. If it isn’t part of the Empire, it can’t be important.’
‘Now look here—’ said Marisol.
Lady Bickle slammed her hand loudly on the counter and they both stopped at once.
‘It’s still horrid,’ said Lady Bickle as though nothing had happened. ‘Will you be all right there on your own tonight? You’re more than welcome to stay with me if you’d like. At least until you’ve had your door repaired.’
‘You’re very kind,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘I might take you up on that. I’ll check with my housekeeper this afternoon and then I might just lock the door and leave it. I’m more shaken by it than I imagined I would be.’
‘Of course,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘Think nothing of it.’
Miss Challenger didn’t look too pleased at this generous offer of hospitality to a comparative stranger, but Lady Bickle immediately went up in my estimation.
‘But anyway,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘Enough of all that. The real reason for my visit wasn’t to tell my tale of petty larceny and woe, but to invite you, Miss Armstrong, to accompany me on a trip to the council offices. We have an appointment with Councillor Nathaniel Morefield.’
‘I say. Well done,’ said Lady Bickle.
‘Well done, indeed,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘The thing is,’ said Miss Caudle, ‘I was happy to stroll down here from Redland, and the walk from here to the council offices on Corn Street is also pleasingly downhill. But the walk back . . . well. Would it be altogether too cheeky to ask if we can use your pretty little motor car?’
‘Of course not,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I was about to offer. And you must take my goggles and gauntlets, too. It’s quicker than walking, but it can get rather chilly.’
‘Thank you,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘You’re certain you don’t mind?’
‘Not at all. I’m sure I can find a way of making myself useful here.’
‘Ra-ther,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘We have more leaflets to put in the post. And there are some . . . some plans to be made now that the election is over. I think you might have some skills we can make use of.’
‘Language skills?’ said Lady Hardcastle innocently.
‘I was thinking more of your . . . your practical skills. We shall have to talk upstairs.’
‘I’d better get my handbag down from up there if you’re going to be having a secret confab,’ said Miss Challenger. ‘I need to get away at lunchtime to see to my mother and I don’t want to interrupt a War Council.’ She scooted out the back to the stairs.
Miss Caudle and I, meanwhile, readied ourselves for the short drive into the middle of the city.
Miss Caudle, it turned out, was an enthusiastic and knowledgeable passenger.
‘I am engaged,’ she said, ‘to a fellow who’s absolutely batty about motor cars. It’s endearing at first, but when one learns that it’s a chap’s only topic of conversation, it does wear a little thin. I might have mentioned that he’s training to be a doctor, and I was quite prepared for gruesome accounts of a day spent rummaging about in someone’s innards, but the reality is quite different – he never stops talking about motor cars. The dismaying result is that I now know more than a person would ever want to know about the blessed things. This Rover 6, for instance, has a single cylinder, water-cooled engine developing six horsepower.’
‘I believe you’re right,’ I said. ‘You know your stuff.’
‘Oh, but how I wish I didn’t. He’s a charming chap, but he’s going to have to go. I can’t spend the rest of my life pretending I’m interested only in motor cars. One has one’s limits. He’s handy for getting about the place, mind you. Always keen to offer a girl a lift.’
‘Lady Bickle has expressed an interest in buying one of these for herself,’ I said. ‘I think she wants to be free from relying on her husband’s chauffeur.’
‘Actually, that’s not a bad idea. I used to get around on a bicycle when I was younger, but everywhere in this blessed city seems to be uphill. You set off on a journey thinking, “Blast this stupid hill. Still, at least it’ll be downhill on the way home.” When it comes
to home time you find that the journey home is uphill, too. It’s like a lost chapter from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland where hills only go upwards and a talking badger explains how it’s a metaphor for life’s struggles or something. I could definitely do with a motor car of my own.’
‘I have a feeling Lady Hardcastle is thinking about replacing this one so it might be for sale soon. I think you’d have to fight Lady Bickle for it, though.’
‘Georgie Bickle, eh? There’s more to that woman than meets the eye. What do you make of her?’
I had to think for a moment. What exactly did I make of her? ‘Honestly?’ I said.
‘Yes, completely honestly. Forget all your deference and your “Yes, my lady” and tell me what you really think. It’ll go no further.’
‘When I first met Lady Hardcastle, she was around Lady Bickle’s present age – in her late twenties. Lady Bickle puts me very much in mind of a young Lady Hardcastle. There’s the same mischievous attitude, the same irreverence, and the wilful desire to do whatever she jolly well pleases and hang the consequences. Lady Hardcastle might have had the better education, and more opportunities to show off her talents, but I see definite similarities.’
‘I take it you approve, then?’
‘Wholeheartedly,’ I said. ‘It’s all tempered with kindness and compassion – she very much cares about Lizzie Worrel’s welfare, and all her mischief and naughtiness has been directed to an important cause. The world would be a better place with more people like those two in it.’
‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Perhaps. Do you trust her?’
I paused again. ‘Yes,’ I said at length. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘I think I do, too,’ she said. ‘What about Miss Beatrice Challenger, spinster of this parish and runner-up in the West of England Mediocrity Challenge Cup?’
I laughed. ‘She’s a bit of a plodder,’ I said. ‘But she seems committed, too.’
‘And do you trust her?’
‘I hadn’t wondered whether I needed to,’ I said. ‘She’s given me no cause to distrust her.’
‘Hmm. And here’s me thinking your mistress was the one with the diplomatic training.’
‘Well, what do you think of her?’ I asked. ‘Do you trust her?’
‘I make it a rule never to trust anyone,’ she said. ‘But there’s something about her. She’s dim, but she always seems a little sly to me.’
‘Are you certain it’s not just your own prejudices?’ I asked. ‘You can’t believe that there could be so little going on beneath that unfashionable hat, so you imagine there must be plots and schemes being hatched in there. Maybe she really is just dull and ordinary.’
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Maybe. What of Señorita Marisol Rojas of Chile?’
‘She’s an odd one,’ I said. ‘She’s bright and sharp. She has a temper on her, I’m told. I think we saw the beginnings of it when Challenger was ragging her about being foreign. Actually, that was odd in itself, now I come to think about it. Perhaps there’s more to Challenger than meets the eye. But Marisol . . . ? I think she’s sound.’
‘Probably. I think I’m starting to be affected by the notebook. Everyone’s a suspect.’
‘So you suspect her?’ I asked.
‘Not as such. Perhaps I’m as much of a jingoist as Challenger after all. Anyone who’s not from the Empire can’t be trusted and all that. I’d hate to think I was like that, but one never knows what lurks in the subconscious.’
‘You’ve read Dr Freud?’
‘I have as it happens,’ she said. ‘Have you?’
‘I’m staggering through some at the moment.’
‘Well, well. There’s more to you than meets the eye, too. Ah, look, here we are. Pull round on to Small Street and we can park right outside.’
I did as I was asked.
‘Might we need to make a quick getaway?’ I asked.
‘I shouldn’t think so. It’s just that it seems rather to defeat the point of bringing the motor car if we then commit ourselves to a lengthy journey on foot once we’ve arrived. If we find ourselves in a position where we might have to flee, I’m rather relying on you being able to fight our way out.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said as I took our goggles and gauntlets and stowed them in the Rover’s little storage box.
‘I have several contacts at the Bridewell,’ she said. ‘The constable on the Queen’s Road beat came upon some bruised and battered university students last Monday evening outside the Victoria Rooms. He was about to run them in for roughhousing in the street but when they claimed they’d been set upon by “one of those dreadful suffragette women and her wretched little servant”, he laughed so much that they scarpered before he could do anything more. You’re saying that wasn’t you?’
‘Ah . . . well . . . now . . . you see . . .’ I said.
‘I thought so. Well done, you.’
‘I only actually hit one of them,’ I said.
‘Pity. They’re always out there trying to stop ladies from going in and then harassing them as they come out. It’s about time someone gave them a pasting.’
‘It was thoroughly wrong, and a complete failure of English society’s agreed conventions of polite discourse,’ I said. ‘But it was very satisfying indeed, and he really did deserve it.’
‘Those vile little boys will be running the country in a few years’ time,’ she said. ‘God help us.’
We approached the oversized doors of the offices of Bristol City Council.
Following the directions of the porter on the door, we found a large room at the end of a long corridor on the first floor. From there, half a dozen doors led – I presumed – to councillors’ offices.
Being a city councillor and humble servant of the people of Bristol, Mr Nathaniel Morefield did not have an obsequious assistant to guard the entrance to his office. Instead there was a lone, slightly bored, typist who seemed to be at the beck and call of several councillors. She would have struggled to try to appear less interested in the comings and goings in the offices around her and didn’t look up from her work when Miss Caudle and I approached her.
‘Good morning, I’m Miss Dinah Caudle.’
‘Are you, indeed?’
‘From the Bristol News.’
‘Good for you, dear,’ said the typist.
‘Miss Maybee – with two e’s – and I are here to see Mr Morefield.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘He’s expecting us.’
‘I dare say he is,’ said the typist.
‘Would you be kind enough to let him know we’re here?’
The typist stopped typing and looked up at us properly for the first time. ‘Why the devil would I want to do that?’ she asked with genuine astonishment.
Miss Caudle stopped to consider this surprising question. After a moment’s thought she said, ‘Actually, I’ve no idea why you’d want to do it. I presumed it was part of your duties.’
‘You’re not alone,’ said the typist. ‘There’s a lot of presumin’ goes on round here. They presumes I’ll make their tea. They presumes I’ll keep their diaries. They presumes I’ll show people in. It never happens, though. They’s all as disappointed as you’re gonna be. I’m paid to type. And type I does.’
‘There’s no arguing with that,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘Can you at least tell us which office is his?’
But the typist had already returned to her typing. ‘Names is on the doors,’ she said without looking up again.
We split up and started on opposite sides of the room. The names were typed on two-inch by one-inch cards in brass holders on the door jambs. I found one labelled ‘Mr N. Morefeild’ – it was close enough. I coughed to attract Miss Caudle’s attention. I beckoned her over.
She knocked and opened the door without waiting for a reply.
‘For heaven’s sake, Elsie,’ said the expensively dressed man behind the rickety desk, having also failed to look up. ‘How many times do I have
to tell you to wait to be invited in? What’s the point of even knocking if you’re just going to barge in anyway? I mean— oh, I do beg your pardon. I thought you were my assistant.’ He had finally noticed us.
‘Good morning, Mr Morefield,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘I’m Dinah Caudle from the Bristol News. I spoke to you on the telephone earlier.’
He stood, revealing himself to be almost excessively tall. ‘So you did, so you did.’
He waved us into two dilapidated wooden chairs.
‘This is Miss Maybee – with two e’s,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘She’s working with me.’
‘How do you do?’ I said.
The cramped office gave new meaning to the word ‘shabby’. The walls were an insipid shade of green, and the paint was scuffed and chipped where the furniture of previous occupants had been scraped against it. The furniture itself might once have been rather pleasing – nothing grand or ostentatious, but good, honest, hardwearing furniture for the representatives of the people. Sadly, decades of careless treatment by those representatives had left it scarred and scruffy. The only smart thing in the room was Mr Morefield, whose weekly barber’s bill alone could have furnished half a dozen offices to this squalid standard.
‘Now, what can I do for you, Miss Caudle?’ he said. ‘You’re writing a piece about the forthcoming Chamber of Commerce Winter Ball, I think you said.’
‘That’s quite right,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘I know it’s the C-of-C’s big charity bunfight and I think our readers would love to know a little more about the selfless men who work so hard to raise so much money for philanthropic causes.’
‘It’s true, actually,’ he said. ‘I know people are a little cynical these days about businessmen and politicians – even humble local politicians like myself – but we really do care a great deal about the city we live and work in. We like to give a little back, you know. To help those less fortunate than ourselves.’
And so began one of the most shamelessly self-serving interviews in the history of newspapers. Miss Caudle played her part well and allowed the preening, pompous buffoon to explain in the most patronizing terms just what an absolutely spiffing fellow he was while I pretended to make notes. When he had finished extolling his own virtues, he moved on to those of his dear, dear friends.
