by T E Kinsey
My attention began to wander until he said, ‘. . . good old Redvers Hinkley. Do you know him? His firm is going to transform the Thomas Street area with their new development, you know. He’ll be there, too, of course. At least I hope so. I’ve not seen him for a couple of weeks . . .’ He broke off and consulted his desk diary. ‘Good lord. The twenty-fifth of last month. Well I never. At his office, too. I say, there’s another thing you can put in your article. We were at his office thrashing out the details until gone midnight. I’ll wager the public doesn’t know how hard we chaps work, you know.’
And then he was off again. For another ten minutes he wittered on and on about how marvellous he was. When he had finally run out of steam, Miss Caudle thanked him very much for his time and we said our goodbyes. We gave Elsie a cheery goodbye, too, and showed ourselves out. She didn’t look up.
We made small talk as we left the building, but once we were in the Rover and threading our way once more through the narrow streets in the oldest part of town, Miss Caudle cut straight to the heart of the matter.
‘He knew exactly what we were up to,’ she said.
‘It would appear so,’ I replied. ‘He’d never make it in the spying world. That pantomime with the diary was shockingly transparent. Giving himself and Hinkley an alibi for the night of the fire, all “natural”-like, without even being asked.’
‘Indeed. We need to tell the others that we’ve been tumbled.’
By the time we got back to the shop, Lady Hardcastle and Lady Bickle had gone. Marisol Rojas was behind the counter.
‘Ah, Miss Armstrong, Miss Caudle,’ she said. ‘How wonderful to see you. How are your . . . your enquiries going? Are you having some success?’
‘Some,’ I said. I couldn’t quite say why, but I felt disinclined to elaborate.
‘That is good,’ she said. ‘Georgie has gone to her home with Lady Hardcastle. She says for you to join her. She is making lunch for you all.’
‘Lady Bickle is making lunch?’ said Miss Caudle with some amusement. ‘I’d pay double to see that.’
‘I have said something wrong?’ asked Marisol.
‘No,’ I said, having given Miss Caudle a raised-eyebrow look of reproach. ‘Not at all. Take no notice of Miss Caudle.’
‘Is Beattie with them?’ asked Miss Caudle.
‘No,’ said Marisol. ‘She is upstairs cooking the books.’
Miss Caudle laughed again. ‘Making up the books?’
‘Yes, that is what I thought was the right word, but she always says, “I am off upstairs to cook the books.” It is another joke, I suppose?’
‘I’m afraid so. We keep the books, or make up the books, but when we’re up to no good, we cook them. Making up the books is good. Cooking the books is fraud.’
‘But when you cook the books you are “making up” the entries,’ said Marisol.
‘Just so. Isn’t English wonderful?’
‘That is not the word I would use,’ said Marisol.
Miss Caudle laughed once more. ‘No, I think you’re probably right. Thank you for your help, though. We’ll see you later, I’m sure.’ She turned to me. ‘Do we know where Georgie lives?’
‘We do, indeed,’ I said. ‘Follow me.’
I led the way out of the shop and round the corner to Berkeley Crescent.
‘Talk about living above the shop,’ said Miss Caudle when I indicated the Bickles’ front door. ‘She doesn’t have far to walk to work, does she?’
I let her ring the bell.
Williams the butler answered the door and had ushered us inside before either of us could say anything.
‘Lady Bickle and Lady Hardcastle are waiting for you both in the dining room. If I may take your coats . . .’
After hanging up our overcoats, he led us along a short passage to a half-open door from which issued the sound of conversation.
‘. . . and then Flo said, “If you do that again, I’ll snap it off.”’
Laughter ensued.
Williams knocked on the door.
‘Your other guests are here, my lady,’ he said, and stood aside to allow us to enter.
‘Ah, there you are,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘Do come in and make yourselves comfortable. Williams? Please tell Cook that we’re ready for lunch.’
‘Of course, my lady,’ said Williams as he buttled off.
We sat down at the table and Lady Bickle offered us some wine. I declined apologetically, but Miss Caudle eagerly accepted the proffered glass.
‘Flo never drinks when she’s driving,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Very commendable,’ said Miss Caudle, raising her glass in salute. ‘Did you know that it’s an offence to be drunk in charge of horses, carriages, cattle, and steam engines, but not – because they hadn’t been invented when the law was passed – motor cars? I wrote a piece about it for the newspaper but the editor spiked it. “No gentleman likes to be told what he can and can’t do in the privacy of his own motor car, Miss Caudle,” he said. So that was the end of that little campaign.’
‘Well, you have an ally in Armstrong,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I was just telling Georgie the story of—’
‘I know which story you were telling, my lady,’ I said. ‘It’s funny how the stories you tell never end with you in an awkward situation with a subaltern from the Household Cavalry.’
There was more good-natured laughter and we were saved from hearing further details of the encounter by the rearrival of Williams, this time accompanied by a footman, both bearing trays of food.
As we ate, Miss Caudle and I recounted the details of our meeting with Morefield.
‘. . . all of which led us to the presumption,’ she said by way of wrapping up, ‘that he knew we were coming, that he knew what we were after, and that he knew that Miss Armstrong wasn’t really Miss Maybee with two e’s.’
‘This really is most aggravating,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Flo and I reached much the same conclusion after speaking to Oswald Crane’s butler. These chaps are definitely talking to each other.’
‘That much doesn’t really surprise me,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘They’re all in it up to their necks and they’re all linked through Morefield. But how do they know who you are?’
‘Hinkley was at the Farley-Strouds’ party,’ I said. ‘The Honourable Jimmy was definitely there, too.’
‘True,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But the Honourable Jimmy has never met me anywhere else and I don’t think Hinkley saw me. He was deep in conversation with that fellow from the Men’s League for Opposing Woman Suffrage and I managed to keep out of his way.’
‘The League?’ said Miss Caudle. ‘Did he introduce himself as the leader of the group, by any chance?’
‘I believe he did, as a matter of fact,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Then you, my dear lady, have already met Mr Nathaniel Morefield. Extremely tall chap, looks like he spends more on clothes than even I do?’
‘That’s him. He had quite the neatest moustache I’ve ever seen. “Dapper” doesn’t seem to do him justice.’
‘He certainly likes to look after himself,’ said Miss Caudle.
‘That might explain it, then,’ I said. ‘If we suppose that Hinkley noticed you, after all, then it’s not many steps from there to him telling Morefield all about it and them both finding out that you’re not Lady Summerford at all.’
‘Blast,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Oh, well, it was good while it lasted. Or goodish, at any rate. All we’ve actually managed is to get some partial – or flimsily self-corroborating – alibis out of them by nefarious means. I can’t really see that we’ll do much worse if we have to be more brazen about it.’
‘What should be our next move?’ asked Lady Bickle.
‘I think we have quite a list of next moves,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I know we fancy these four charming gents because they were all under investigation by Christian Brookfield, but I think we have to keep in mind the possibility that none of them has anything to d
o with it. So our first order of business is to pin down those alibis once and for all. So what do we have?’
‘Crane was at home,’ I said. ‘But his servants can’t swear he was there after ten.’
‘Right, so we need to speak to his wife. She’s having an affair with Morefield and if she’s got any sense at all, she almost certainly can’t stand her husband. If she vouches for him, he must be in the clear.’
‘Jimmy Stansbridge was playing cards in Clifton but went out at ten,’ said Lady Bickle.
‘So we need to find out where he went,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Could you contrive to bump into him and just ask him? You’re pals, are you not?’
‘The best of card-playing chums. I’ll track him down.’
‘Meanwhile Morefield and Hinkley alibi each other,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘They were working together in Hinkley’s office “until gone midnight”, or so says Morefield.’
‘A place like that would have a night porter on the door,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Especially if the partners regularly work late. Someone will have seen Hinkley and Morefield leave. I’m sure a few bob and a bit of the old Hardcastle charm will get the story. So that sorts all that out, but there’s someone we’re forgetting in all this.’
‘Oh?’ we all said, almost in unison.
‘Poor old Lizzie Worrel,’ she said. ‘We need to pay her another visit to let her know how we’re getting on. She must think we’ve left her to rot.’
‘I’ve been popping in when I can,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘But I’m sure she’d love to see you for a full report. She’s putting a lot of faith in your abilities – she’s certain you won’t let her down.’
‘Then we definitely need to make that trip as soon as possible. Can I leave it to you to arrange it?’
‘Of course,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘I’ll telephone you with the details.’
‘And in the meantime,’ said Miss Caudle, ‘I need to crack on with that notebook. I’m sure it holds the key.’
‘Splendid,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We seem to have a plan.’
Chapter Eleven
By the time Edna and Miss Jones left for the day on Tuesday afternoon, we had already received telephone calls from Lady Bickle and Dinah Caudle. Lady Bickle had organized a prison visit for us all on Friday morning, and had managed to arrange to meet the Honourable Jimmy at the cards club that evening. Miss Caudle, meanwhile, had made some discreet enquiries and had found that the night porter at the offices of Messrs Churn, Whiting, Hinkley, and Puffett rejoiced in the name of Gordon Horden and was on duty every day except Sunday, from seven o’clock in the evening until seven o’clock the next morning.
‘Did Miss Caudle say anything more about her burglary?’ I asked when Lady Hardcastle had conveyed the gist of her message.
‘Ah, yes, she did,’ she said. ‘By the time they’d tidied up, she was short one pair of pearl earrings, her favourite pen, two silk scarves, and about fifteen shillings in change – give or take a couple of farthings – that she was saving in an old jam jar in her kitchen. That’s in addition to the candlesticks and trinket box she’d already spotted.’
‘So it was just a common-or-garden housebreaking, then,’ I said.
‘It certainly seems to have been, which means that we can focus on more immediate matters. Our confederates have made great strides while we’ve been sitting complacently on our backsides.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ I said. ‘I’ve been working my dainty little socks off.’
‘And don’t think I don’t appreciate it,’ she said. ‘But we ought to do our bit to help with the investigation. I propose a trip to Sneyd Park at our earliest convenience, to try to beard Mrs Crane in her lair. She’s a bit of a one for going out of an evening, so if we wish to catch her at home, we’d better go soon.’
‘We’ve a pretty shrewd idea of where she goes, though,’ I said.
‘Well, yes, we do. But can you imagine the fuss, furore, hubbub, and, indeed, hullabaloo that would ensue were we to pitch up on Mr Morefield’s doorstep and ask to speak to Mrs Crane? Not to mention the brouhaha, carry-on, and kerfuffle.’
‘There would certainly be some manner of scene,’ I said. ‘I can see that. Shall I get our driving togs?’
‘Yes, please, dear. And then we must fire up our wingèd chariot. There’s no time to lose.’
‘You know you have two potential buyers for your wingèd chariot now, don’t you?’
‘I know Georgie’s interested,’ she said. ‘Who’s the other?’
‘Miss Caudle. She’s been relying on her beau to chauffeur her around but she’s about to give him his marching orders and she’s wondering how she’s going to get about.’
‘I shall have to prod Fishy in that case. The sooner we have a replacement, the sooner those two can fight over who gets dear old Hortense.’
‘You named the motor car “Hortense”?’ I said. ‘When did that happen?’
‘Just then. It came to me all of a sudden. She lives in the garden, after all. And one of my governesses was called Hortense. Slow-moving little woman with a red face. Never did as my mother instructed.’
‘Well, that sums up the Rover,’ I said.
‘I thought so. Now let’s get cracking or our quarry will be off on her nocturnal manoeuvres.’
We found Crane’s house much more quickly on this second visit and had parked on the road outside less than an hour after leaving home. We approached the front door, where, once again, Lady Hardcastle rang the bell.
Russett, the doddering butler, once again answered the door. This time, though, there was no hesitation before he said, ‘Mr Crane is not at home.’
‘That’s quite all right,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We’ve come to see Mrs Crane. Is she at home?’
‘I shall find out,’ said Russett, and shut the door.
‘It’s all right,’ I said quietly. ‘We’ll just wait here.’
We didn’t have to wait long. Barely a minute passed before the door reopened and the butler stood aside to usher us in.
‘Mrs Crane will see you in the drawing room,’ he said, indicating the half-open door a few feet along the passageway.
I kept to one side of the passage to allow him to pass and show us in, but he had already disappeared into another room. He clearly considered his buttling obligations to have been fully discharged.
Lady Hardcastle knocked on the door and entered. I followed.
In my thirty-two years on the planet I had seen many, many people – tall ones, short ones, fat ones, thin ones, attractive ones, and ugly ones. But never had I seen anyone quite so exquisitely beautiful as the woman standing by the fireplace. She looked as though she had been handcrafted by the most skilled artists – every part of her was perfect. Almost every part, that is.
‘Hardcastle?’ she said in a voice that sounded like a small child with a sore throat.
‘Emily, Lady Hardcastle, yes. And this is my associate, Miss Florence Armstrong. You’re Mrs Crane?’
‘I am,’ said the woman. ‘Your “associate” appears to be dressed as a maid.’
‘A girl has to earn a living,’ I said.
‘Are you always this impertinent?’
‘Almost always. Are you always this rude?’
After glaring at me for a moment, she turned back to Lady Hardcastle. ‘You’re here to find out whether dear old Oswald’s . . . alibi stands up,’ she said.
‘We are. We know he had a motive for setting the fire that killed Christian Brookfield and so far we can only be certain of his whereabouts until ten o’clock on that night. Your man Russett says that Mr Crane retired at nine o’clock with a headache and that the rest of the household turned in at ten. From then on he was free to come and go as he pleased.’
‘You know, I believe, that I was out for the evening,’ said Mrs Crane.
‘Russett told us as much,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘But he didn’t say where I was?’
‘He drew a discreet veil ove
r your whereabouts.’
‘I was having dinner with Nathaniel Morefield,’ said Mrs Crane.
‘I’m sure that’s none of our business,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘When did you return home?’
‘I was home by a quarter past ten. Nathaniel was unable to stay out. He had taken a quick break from his work to see me, but he had to return to the office just before nine. I stayed at the restaurant for a while on my own and then came home to find Oswald asleep in bed.’
‘You share a bed?’
‘For appearances’ sake, yes. So I can confirm that he was dead to the world and didn’t rise until morning.’
‘I see,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘It would be very much to my advantage to see Oswald disgraced and imprisoned. I might finally be free of him then. Sadly, though, he hasn’t got the gumption to burn anyone’s house down and he was most definitely sleeping the sleep of a just man – or of just about a man, at least – when I came home. He’s not your arsonist.’
‘Then we shall cross him off our list. Thank you for being so frank.’
‘Merely honest. I see no profit in pretending to be other than I am. But now that you know, I don’t expect to see either of you again.’
‘Now that we know, there’ll be no need to see either of us again,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘I also know that you’re harassing Nathaniel, and I expect you to leave him alone, too.’
‘You choose to characterize it as harassment, but we see it as looking for the truth in order to free an innocent woman. And in that matter, at least, I’m afraid your expectations will be thwarted. We shall continue to press for justice, and if that means asking further questions of your lover, then those questions will be asked.’
‘I don’t think you fully understand who you’re dealing with,’ said Mrs Crane. ‘But you can’t say you haven’t been warned.’
‘We’ve received far more impressive threats from people far more powerful than you and Mr Morefield,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘And yet somehow we’re still here. One doesn’t like to get sucked into these nursery squabbles, but to put it into your own terms, I’m not at all certain that you fully understand who you’re dealing with, either. We’ll show ourselves out.’
