The Burning Issue of the Day

by T E Kinsey

  ‘How wonderful,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Whereas the Dog and Duck in Littleton Cotterell is named after dogs. And ducks.’

  ‘Ah, no,’ I said. ‘That name, too, has a more interesting derivation. In the time of King John, “dogs” were tax collectors and avoiding them was known as “ducking”. Our village pub actually celebrates a long history of West Country tax evasion.’

  They both frowned at me.

  ‘I’m not entirely certain I believe you,’ said Miss Caudle.

  ‘Nor I,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Ah, well,’ I said. ‘It was worth a try. You’re right, my lady. It’s named after hunting dogs and the dead ducks they retrieve on hunting trips. I see it was an act of ambitious folly to attempt to deceive you.’

  Our pies and beers arrived and we tucked in.

  ‘So tell us,’ said Lady Hardcastle between mouthfuls. ‘Why have we been summoned across county borders to this charmingly quaint den of iniquity and vice?’

  ‘I’ve decoded the next section of Brookfield’s notebook,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘And I’ve arranged a meeting with my editor, Mr Charles Tapscott, to confirm a few things. This lunch is by way of fortifying us for the encounter.’

  ‘He’s a formidable fellow?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘He’s a periphrastically inclined old windbag. We’ll need all our strength to keep him to the point.’

  ‘And you’re not going to tell us anything now?’ I said.

  ‘Heavens, no,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘Where would be the fun in that?’

  We followed Miss Caudle through the Bristol News’s front door and past the porter, who greeted her with a cheery, ‘Afternoon, Miss Caudle. ’E’s waitin’ for you in his office.’

  We went up the stairs to the noisily busy newsroom on the first floor, where those journalists not currently enjoying the hospitality at the Hog and Ass were shouting loudly at each other for no readily evident reason.

  The editor’s office was in the corner of the room furthest from the door and we negotiated our way past the desks of journalists and typists, who each greeted Miss Caudle cheerily. There was one exception. A short man with ill-fitting spectacles and a misbuttoned waistcoat sneered at her, tutted, and returned to his work.

  ‘Take no notice of him,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘That’s Aubrey Holcomb, our sports editor. A woman’s place is in the home. Isn’t that right, Aubrey?’

  He ignored her.

  Lady Hardcastle, though, was unfazed. ‘I’m delighted to finally meet you, Mr Holcomb,’ she said. ‘I read your piece about Bristol City’s woes. Very insightful. Although I do wonder if sacking the manager might be a bit drastic. I think it’s the formation that’s wrong – I’m not at all sure the pyramid is fully effective. If they drop the two outside midfielders back to form a four-man defensive line, then drop the wingers and one of the inside forwards back to midfield, they’ll have two impenetrable four-man lines of defence.’

  ‘And only two forwards,’ scoffed Holcomb.

  ‘Ah,’ she continued. ‘But the former wingers can work both in attack and defence. And you could push one of the other midfielders forwards, too. The other one can hang back to shield the fullbacks. So in attack, you still effectively have your five-man attacking line with your two centre forwards, two outside-halves and a nimble midfielder. But as soon as the ball comes adrift, the three midfielders who have been helping the attack fall back into their defensive front line. Set up like that, they should be able to run rings around a team like Sheffield Wednesday.’

  ‘What?’ said Holcomb, somewhat too aggressively for my taste. ‘What on earth makes you imagine you know the first thing about football?’

  ‘It’s quite simple, really.’

  ‘I’ve never heard such tommyrot,’ he said, and returned to angrily flicking through his notebook.

  When we were out of his earshot, I said, ‘What was all that about? Is that a real thing or were you just trying to irritate him?’

  ‘A little of both, to be honest,’ she said. ‘We watched a match while we were in London, do you remember? And I kept thinking about how much better it would be if they played it all slightly differently. It would never catch on, though. You know what stick-in-the-muds men are.’

  Miss Caudle rapped smartly on the editor’s door. She opened it without waiting for a reply.

  ‘Miss Caudle,’ said the man behind the desk jovially as we all trooped in. ‘Oh, and two guests. Welcome all. Sit ye, sit ye.’

  We sat us. The office wasn’t as large or luxurious as I had expected the office of the editor of a major provincial newspaper to be. But the man himself exuded a quiet authority and gave the room an air of grandeur that the dilapidated furniture and flyblown lamps could not have managed on their own. A large window afforded him an emperor’s view of the editorial office but did little to block out the clamour of his exuberantly shouty staff.

  He looked to Miss Caudle for introductions.

  ‘Lady Hardcastle,’ she said, ‘may I introduce Mr Charles Tapscott, editor of the Bristol News? Mr Tapscott, this is Emily, Lady Hardcastle, and her friend and colleague, Miss Florence Armstrong. They’ve been helping me with a story.’

  We all how-do-you-do’d.

  ‘I have your notes here, Miss Caudle,’ said Mr Tapscott, tapping some papers with the end of his pen. ‘You’ve been hard at work, it seems.’

  ‘We all have,’ said Miss Caudle, indicating Lady Hardcastle and me. ‘But the bulk of the early legwork was done by Christian Brookfield. He left a coded notebook.’

  ‘I knew broadly what he was working on,’ said Tapscott. ‘I was on at him for detail, though. It’s all very well and knowing that these slimy chaps are up to no good, it’s proving it that’s the hard thing. Let’s face it, we all pretty much knew that men like that would have skeletons in their cupboards. I mean, you’ve met them, haven’t you? You’ve only to take one look at them to know there’s something fishy about the lot of them. They—’

  ‘Yes, quite,’ interrupted Miss Caudle. ‘We tried hard to talk to the men, to find out more about them. At first we tried to do it clandestinely – assumed identities and all that. But within days they knew exactly who we were. And now I think I know why.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Tapscott, ‘they’re all from the whatsitsname, the League of Fuddy-Duddies, or whatever they call themselves. Anti-suffrage types. And they’ve got someone “on the inside” with the WSPU. A spy. Never met a spy. Sounds like a thoroughly fascinating job. I remember a fellow I went to school with saying that his father was involved in espionage. Never believed him. Chap was an absolute tick. But then years later what do you know but I was covering a story up by the Khyber Pass and—’

  ‘Indeed,’ interrupted Miss Caudle again. ‘You knew about this?’

  ‘Of course. Brookfield had to clear it with me before he carried out the next stage of his investigation.’

  ‘The next stage?’ said Miss Caudle. ‘I’ve only decoded up to the section where he was musing on the possibility of there being a spy in the WSPU.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Tapscott. ‘He needed my approval – or, at least, he needed me to be aware of what he was doing in case there were any repercussions – because he intended to woo the woman he suspected.’

  ‘Lizzie Worrel?’ we all said together.

  ‘The one the police have got for the arson and murder? Perhaps. Her name definitely came up in conversation, but to tell the truth, I can’t be certain it was that particular conversation.’

  ‘Do you have any record of the meeting?’ asked Miss Caudle.

  ‘Brookfield definitely sent me a memo. I’ve got it somewhere. I’ll get Mary to look for it.’

  At that moment, a woman entered the room without knocking. She was bearing a fully laden tea tray.

  ‘Ah, Mary, there you are,’ said Mr Tapscott. ‘Brookfield sent me a memo on the WSPU story he was working on. Could you dig it out for me, please?’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Tapscott,’
she said. She set down the tray and left the room.

  ‘Gives me the creeps, that woman,’ said Mr Tapscott, handing us each a slightly chipped and scarred cup full of dauntingly strong tea. ‘Just materializes out of nowhere whenever you mention her name. Pretty sure we’d have burned her as a witch in the Middle Ages. Not sure there’s many here who would try to stop me if I ordered it now, to tell the truth. Damn fine secretary, mind you. Efficient, but unnerving.’

  ‘You mentioned the Men’s League for Opposing Woman Suffrage as though you disapproved of them,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘Most heartily.’

  ‘But your newspaper is strongly opposed to women’s suffrage.’

  ‘It might appear to be, to a supporter of the cause. To the opponents of women’s suffrage, it most definitely appears to be in favour of it. But as for the newspaper, I take the view that we should report the news entirely without prejudice – it’s up to our readers to make up their own minds about which side to support. I proudly regard it as a sign of our neutrality that we manage to attract claims of bias from both sides of any debate.’

  Mary returned at that moment with a sheet of paper. She placed it on Mr Tapscott’s desk and left without saying a word.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mr Tapscott to the closing door. ‘Let’s see now,’ he said, picking up the paper. ‘“To Mr C Tapscott, from C Brookfield,” he said as he read the memo. ‘“Further to our conversation . . . alleged infiltration of the WSPU . . . important to have it on record . . .” Ah, here we are . . . “It is my intention to form a romantic liaison with the woman whom I suspect . . .” Oh, I’m terribly sorry, listen to this: “I feel it would be inappropriate at this stage to record the woman’s name in formal correspondence. If my suspicions are unfounded, it would be unfortunate to have made a defamatory accusation that might damage an innocent woman’s reputation.” An honourable and conscientious chap, old Brookfield. We could do with more like him. But I’m afraid it doesn’t help you – I have no idea who the woman was.’

  ‘We shall have to dig a little deeper ourselves,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of any more help,’ said Mr Tapscott. ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘Not from me,’ she said. ‘Ladies?’

  ‘Not for the moment,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘No, sir,’ I said. ‘But we’ve made at least half a step forwards. Thank you for your time.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Entirely my pleasure,’ said Mr Tapscott with a smile. ‘Before you go, though – I rather think you two may have stories to tell. If ever you’ve a mind to tell them, do please come to me first. I’ll pay top rates for the inside story on any of your cases. Or any of your other adventures, for the matter of that. Rumours abound about your exploits – I often wonder if I may have met a spy after all.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We’ll most definitely keep you in mind.’

  ‘Please do,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you again,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘Unless you object, I’m going to carry on working on this. I think it would be a feather in the newspaper’s cap if we can find the answers the police haven’t bothered with, even if the end result is the same.’

  ‘No objections at all, Miss Caudle,’ said Mr Tapscott. ‘I said we need more like Brookfield and you have the makings. Keep up the good work.’

  We exchanged another round of farewells and left him to running his newspaper.

  Back in the editorial office, Lady Hardcastle asked Miss Caudle if there were a telephone she might use. Miss Caudle directed her to a desk in the far corner of the office and she left to make her call while Miss Caudle and I waited at an empty desk.

  ‘You’re working wonders with that notebook,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But Tapscott could have saved me a lot of work if he’d told me everything he knew when I began. I suppose it’s my fault for not letting him know sooner what I was up to, but still.’

  ‘What about these latest developments?’

  ‘I was rather surprised when I decoded Brookfield’s suspicions about the spy, but suddenly things did make a little more sense. It had seemed odd to me that Hinkley and co. knew so quickly what we were up to and I had definitely begun to wonder if that’s how they were doing it. But I confess it’s something of a surprise to find that Brookfield not only knew there was a spy, but also had an idea of who it might be.’

  ‘And infuriating that he didn’t mention her name.’

  ‘It has to be Worrel, though, don’t you think?’ she said. ‘It fits so well. She was the spy, he suspected her, he wooed her, she found out it was a sham, she killed him.’

  ‘She killed him, and left a note claiming responsibility.’

  ‘She claimed responsibility for the fire, which damages the WSPU’s reputation. She must have imagined that simply saying she had no idea that there was anyone there would get her off any murder charge.’

  ‘And why would she tell us that they were engaged to be married?’ I asked.

  ‘She did? When?’

  ‘We saw her in the gaol on Friday.’

  ‘It still fits. Now she’s moved on to denying responsibility for everything and she’s trying to strengthen her case by saying that she’d have no reason to kill the man she loved. In reality she was trying to silence him before he could write his story.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It still doesn’t feel right, somehow.’

  ‘What doesn’t feel right?’ asked Lady Hardcastle as she returned from making her telephone call.

  ‘That Lizzie Worrel is engaged in an elaborately desperate double bluff,’ I said.

  ‘I can see pros and cons,’ she said. ‘I think Georgie Bickle might be able to tell us more. I telephoned expecting to leave a message but I caught her at home. She’s invited the three of us up to Clifton to discuss the current state of play.’

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ asked Miss Caudle. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘The Rover’s only a two-seater, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘Shall I make two trips?’

  ‘Two trips be blowed,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘Will that box thing on the back take my weight?’

  ‘I should think so,’ I said. ‘You’re not terribly heavy. The engine might struggle to pull us all, but if we go up past the hospital and along Park Row it’s not too steep.’

  ‘That’s settled, then,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We’re off to Berkeley Crescent.’

  Lady Bickle welcomed us as we were shown into the drawing room and invited us to sit.

  ‘I’ve asked cook to make us a pot of tea,’ she said, ‘but Emily tells me you’ve only just had your lunch so I didn’t ask for any food. Do speak up if you fancy something, though – she does make devilishly good cakes.’

  ‘I meant to remark on it before, my lady,’ I said. ‘She’s an extremely skilled pâtissier.’

  ‘She trained in Paris,’ said Lady Bickle proudly. ‘She ought to run her own shop, or at least be working in one of the grand hotels, but we’ve got her for now. She’s sweet on one of our footmen and I think her heart is ruling her head. I keep telling her she should spread her wings but she smiles and says, “Yes, my lady,” and then carries on regardless. Still, she’s young – there’ll be plenty of time for fame and fortune. And he is a handsome cove. I can very well see the attraction.’

  ‘Well,’ said Lady Hardcastle, drawing out the word over at least three syllables, ‘if she’s made cakes anyway, it would be a terrible shame to let them go to waste.’

  ‘Almost an insult to her talent,’ agreed Miss Caudle.

  Lady Bickle laughed and when Williams appeared moments later, she asked him to tell the cook that we’d like some pastries after all.

  ‘Now, then,’ she said as she poured the tea. ‘What’s been going on since last we spoke?’

  Between us, we filled in the details gleaned from the notebook and our
meeting with Mr Tapscott at the Bristol News.

  ‘A spy?’ she said when we had finished. ‘In our ranks? Posing as one of our own? That’s a serious accusation to level at anyone. Did Brookfield have any proof? Did he have a suspect?’

  ‘We’re not certain yet what proof he had – I’m still deciphering the notebook,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘But he definitely had a suspect.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘He was loathe to say for fear of accidental defamation.’

  ‘But we do know,’ I said, ‘that he set out to get close to the woman he suspected. Romantically close.’

  ‘Lizzie Worrel?’ asked Lady Bickle.

  ‘They were certainly walking out,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘Brookfield’s suggestion was that the Men’s League for Being a Shower of Utter Dunderheads employed a woman to do their dirty work?’

  ‘That stumped me for a little while,’ I said. ‘But then I remembered that there’s a Women’s National Anti-Suffrage League. It’s possible that they’re working together. Actually, it would be stupid of them not to be. They’re both working towards the same end, after all. I’m sure the irony of the realization that they’d be better off working together will be entirely lost on them when they band together to stop women getting the vote.’

  ‘When did Lizzie join you?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Last year,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘Early in the summer, I think.’ She paused for a moment, trying to remember exactly when. ‘Yes, that was it,’ she said eventually. ‘Last June. We had quite a little flurry of new members then – that’s when we welcomed Beattie Challenger and Marisol Rojas, too. And a handful of others, as well, but most of them have fallen by the wayside since then.’