by T E Kinsey
‘So any of those three could secretly be members of the Women’s National Anti-Suffrage League,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘They could have been feeding your plans to the other side for months.’
Lady Bickle was lost in thought for another moment or two. ‘You know, now you come to say it, we have noticed a few strange things of late. We put them down to bad luck at the time – batches of leaflets going missing, the police just happening to be patrolling when we were planning to smash a few council windows, that sort of thing. But it could just as easily have been coincidence and misfortune as deliberate sabotage.’
‘The burglary at my flat was almost certainly an attempt to get the notebook,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘And no one outside our group knew of its existence. Someone tipped off . . . well, someone or other – my money’s on Morefield – and they had my place turned over looking for it.’
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘They’ve known about everything. Given that Mr Brookfield has been right about everything else so far,’ I said, ‘I’m inclined to believe him on this one. I believe you have a cuckoo in your nest, Lady Bickle.’
‘I really don’t want to believe it,’ said Lady Bickle, ‘but I’m forced to concede that it’s the most reasonable explanation. Questions remain, though. The two uppermost in my mind are who is it, and what do we do about it?’
‘I think we can mitigate the effects by keeping our plans to ourselves for the time being,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We’re assuming it isn’t you, by the way. I shan’t insult your intelligence by pretending I didn’t consider the possibility that it might be, but on balance you seem the least likely suspect.’
‘I appreciate your candour,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘Thank you. And I agree. We shall keep any further plans and discoveries among ourselves. Even Lizzie Worrel must be kept in the dark. I’ve been telling her what we’ve been up to, so she’s been as well informed as the other two and there’s no reason she couldn’t have passed things on, even from her gaol cell.’
‘I think that’s fair,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Not knowing what we’re up to will put additional strain on her, I’m sure, but I think she’ll understand. If she really is innocent and we can help to prove it, she won’t mind a few days of enforced ignorance.’
‘It’s all rather academic for the moment, anyway,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘There’s not a great deal we can do until I’ve deciphered more of this blessed notebook.’
‘In that case allow me to fortify you with tea and cake,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘Then I shall send you all on your merry way and you can get your thinking caps on.’
Chapter Fourteen
With nothing more to do on the case until Miss Caudle could provide more clues from the notebook, Tuesday passed in a blur of catching up with domestic matters. Lady Farley-Stroud called round with news of the comings and goings of several village committees. She was, of course, angling for Lady Hardcastle’s support, but my employer played the innocent and feigned a complete inability to read between the lines. Lady Farley-Stroud’s heavy-handed hints fell, so she thought, on deaf ears.
Over lunch, I was grilled on my preferences for a birthday outing.
‘It’s only a month away, you know,’ she said. ‘We should make plans now or we’ll leave it till the last minute and end up doing something you don’t really want to do, just for the sake of doing something.’
‘I always enjoy dinner and a show,’ I said. ‘Something light and frivolous.’
She groaned.
‘Your snobbish disdain for popular entertainment does you no favours, you know,’ I said. ‘You think it makes you seem sophisticated, but you just come across as condescending.’
‘But . . . I mean . . . really. There’s a flower girl, or a waitress, or a shop girl who sells pretty things for young men to buy for their sweethearts. And she meets a handsome young duke, or army officer, or something important in the city. He falls head over heels in love with her, forsaking the girl he thought he’d been in love with since they were children. He woos her. She falls in love with him. And then . . . Oh no, he’s only gone and done something catastrophically stupid that makes her never want to see him again. She mopes. He mopes. But wait. What’s this? It was all a silly misunderstanding? Oh, thank goodness for that. True love prevails and they live happily ever after. Oh, and underscoring all that are some of the soppiest, tritest, most thoroughly syrupy and awful songs ever to escape into the wild from whatever foul pit of musical horror these things are conceived in.’
‘You’re not keen, then?’ I said.
‘For you, dear, I would endure even the worst of them, especially on your birthday. As long as there were a slap-up feed and a couple of bottles of fizz at the end of it all, of course.’
‘Naturally,’ I said. ‘I shall ponder, then – thank you. Perhaps there’ll be a show to change your mind.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ she said. ‘Never be afraid of a challenge.’
After lunch we went our separate ways, she to her mysterious studio-based labours and I to more mundane wardrobe maintenance. That didn’t take long, though, and once I had checked that Edna and Miss Jones were well and happy, I was soon able to settle in the drawing room with a book.
Teatime came and went without incident. By the time Edna and Miss Jones had left for the day, the lamps were lit, there were fresh logs on the fires, and I was thinking seriously about locking the doors and settling down for a quiet evening at home. Inspector Sunderland, it seemed, did not approve of my plans.
Just before six there was a ring at the doorbell. I answered it to find a cheerful police inspector on the doorstep.
‘Good evening, Miss Armstrong,’ said Inspector Sunderland. ‘Do you think I might come in for a moment? I have news.’
‘I think Lady Hardcastle prefers visitors who have presents,’ I said. ‘But news will do. Please, come in.’
I took his drizzle-dampened hat and coat to reveal a much shabbier suit than I was used to seeing. I made no comment but led him through to the drawing room, where Lady Hardcastle was experimenting with her latest piano composition – a complicatedly syncopated tune in the ragtime style.
‘The inspector is here, my lady,’ I said.
She played to the end of the phrase before turning to greet him. ‘Good evening, Inspector,’ she said warmly. ‘What a wonderful surprise to see you. Do make yourself comfortable. To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?’
‘I’m sorry for not telephoning but I bring news of the Thomas Street arson,’ he said as he sat down. ‘Or news of where news might be found, at least.’
‘You are a gift from the gods, my dear chap,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We have been confounded at every turn and were beginning to think that Miss Elizabeth Worrel of Redland might very well be guilty after all. What is this news? Where may it be found? When can we get it? Does anyone need doing over? My associate here specializes in biffing ne’er-do-wells on the conk.’
He chuckled. ‘I believe I may have inadvertently stumbled on one of the missing witnesses from the night of the attack,’ he said. ‘You remember that the local boys rounded up and questioned everyone who had hung around at the scene? And you remember asking me if I thought anyone might have scarpered before questioning could begin?’
‘We do,’ I said.
‘Indeed. Well, one of my regular informants drinks at the Court Sampson and I believe he was there that night. Knowing Weasel, he’d have hopped it as soon as anyone mentioned summoning the Police Fire Brigade. I reckon he’d have been out the door halfway through the word “police”. But he got word to me that he knows something.’
‘Is this the same Weasel we saw you with at Crane’s the other day?’ I asked.
‘Ah, yes, it is,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten about that. Jesse “Weasel” Weaver.’
‘Is he a reliable witness?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.
‘I wouldn’t trust him any further than I could throw your piano,’ he said, ‘but he seldom steers me wrong. He has no o
ne’s interests at heart but his own, and he recognizes that it makes sound financial sense to keep supplying me with accurate intelligence. If he saw anything useful, he’ll tell us. For a price.’
‘Then we must meet him at once,’ she said. ‘If he were there before the fire and noticed anything helpful, he might be the key to unravelling this whole thing. Where will he be? At the Court Sampson?’
‘We should, he might, and he definitely will be,’ said the inspector. ‘I’ve arranged to meet him there. But I’m afraid I must respectfully request that you don’t come, my lady. I’d like a second pair of eyes and ears with me, but I think Miss Armstrong would fit in much better on Thomas Street. I adopt a different name and character myself when I meet Weasel in public.’
He indicated his shabby suit and scuffed boots.
‘Of course, of course,’ she said. ‘That’s precisely why she and I were so successful in our espionage days – we could each slip unnoticed into places where the other would attract unwanted attention. What say you, tiny one? Are you game?’
‘Always,’ I said. ‘Should I change?’
‘Something a little more . . .’ the inspector seemed at a loss for the right word.
‘Trollopy?’ I suggested.
‘I scarcely imagine that you have anything trollopy in your wardrobe,’ he said, blushing slightly. ‘But a little more . . . proletarian, perhaps.’
‘Leave it to me,’ I said.
‘Would it be possible for you to follow us in your own motor car, my lady?’ said the inspector. ‘I have business to attend to in town after this and it would be a great help not to have to deliver Miss Armstrong home after the meeting.’
‘I say, what fun,’ she said. ‘I shall be your procuress come to pick you up and take you to your next client.’
‘I’m not entirely sure how I went from being the inspector’s additional pair of eyes and ears to being a “girl of the pavement”,’ I said. ‘Does your snitch-meeting persona pick up professional girls, Inspector?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ he said with another chuckle. ‘But I think we’d both be more comfortable if you were his new sweetheart.’
‘I can do that,’ I said. ‘He’ll think himself the luckiest man in town to have Nelly Maybee – with two e’s – on his arm.’
‘Nelly who?’ he said.
‘It’s her latest alias,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Don’t encourage her too much or you’ll get swept along by whimsical tales of petty crime and prostitution in the slums of Cardiff. I believe there was even pickpocketing at one point.’
‘She’s a reformed character now,’ I said in my best Welsh Valleys accent. ‘She is clean and wholesome, and working as a seamstress.’
‘You see?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Never one to stint on a character’s full life story, our Flo.’
‘One should never neglect the details,’ I said. ‘Do you need help getting into your driving togs?’
‘I think I can manage,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring yours with me. Why don’t you two tootle off as soon as you’re ready and I’ll wait for you on the Bristol Bridge.’
‘That sounds like a plan,’ said Inspector Sunderland.
‘Just give me five minutes to change into something less servanty,’ I said, ‘and we can go whenever you wish.’
The journey into the city with Inspector Sunderland made Lady Hardcastle’s reckless driving look like that of a nervous maiden aunt taking a Sunday School class on an outing to the seaside. The police motor car was a great deal more powerful than our own and he drove with an urgent aggression that had me clutching at the dashboard and door handle for support.
‘Are we in a rush?’ I asked innocently as the tyres scrabbled for grip on an unexpectedly sharp bend.
‘Not especially,’ he said, swerving violently to avoid a man walking on the road carrying a lantern in one hand and a bulky sack in the other. ‘Why?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Just as long as Lady Hardcastle can keep up.’
‘She was holding her own for a little while,’ he said, looking in his rearview mirror. ‘But we’ve lost her now. She’s quite the driver, though.’
‘Hmm,’ I said, and decided not to pursue the matter further.
The journey took a great deal less time than I was used to and I began to see the possible benefits of a more powerful machine. Being more enclosed was also a treat and we arrived at the Bristol Bridge feeling a good deal warmer than I was used to, too.
To better maintain our cover, we had parked the motor car a few streets away from the pub and completed our journey on foot – arm in arm and staggering a little. Just another tipsy couple on a night out.
‘I forgot to ask,’ I said as we neared the burned-out shop on Thomas Street. ‘What’s your name?’
‘My name?’ he said. ‘You know my na— Oh, I’m with you. Sorry. I’m Eddie when I’m working under cover. Eddie Marsh.’
‘I just thought your new sweetheart was quite likely to know your name, that’s all. Pleased to meet you, Eddie.’
We arrived at the door of the Court Sampson Inn. The building was old, and badly in need of a lick of paint. The sign outside proclaimed it to be owned by ‘Bristol United Breweries Ltd’ and promised ‘Pale Ales, Old Beer, and Stout’. We pushed our way inside.
It was a thoroughly down-at-heel city pub, like dozens of others I’d been in all over the country. The sawdust-strewn floor was scarred by the hobnails of a thousand boots. The once-white ceiling was stained brown by the smoke of a thousand pipes. The men sitting at the tables nursing their drinks were rough and rumpled. The women who accompanied some of them were even rougher but their rumples were smoothed out by their plumpness.
We attracted little obvious attention as we walked in, but I noticed several pairs of suspicious eyes discreetly turning our way. We were strangers, but we seemed to be the right sort of stranger and the eyes slid off us as everyone returned to their games and conversations.
The inspector nudged me. ‘There’s Weasel,’ he said quietly, nodding towards a table at the back. I recognized the man we had seen talking to the inspector at Crane’s in Clifton. He was playing dominoes with an older man and had already spotted us.
As we approached he said, ‘Go on now, Bernie, sling your hook, I’ve got a bit of business to attend to.’ He wasn’t a local. I put his accent somewhere towards the East End of London.
The old man stroked his prodigious grey beard, but made no effort to leave.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Weasel, ‘I won’t look at your ’and. Eddie ’ere will look after your dominoes for you, won’t you, Eddie?’
The inspector nodded as he grunted his assent.
‘Can’t say fairer than that, can you?’ said Weasel, and the old man reluctantly withdrew, taking his glass of rum with him.
‘Take a seat, Eddie,’ said Weasel. ‘And your lady friend, too. I don’t think as I’ve had the pleasure.’
‘This is Nelly,’ said the inspector. ‘Nelly, this is Jesse Weaver.’
‘But my friends calls me Weasel,’ he said, holding out his hand.
‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ I said, cranking up my accent.
‘A Taffy, eh?’ said Weasel. ‘There’s a lot of you about round ’ere.’
‘Better opportunities for work,’ I said.
‘Horizontal work?’ he said with a leer.
I leaned towards him and said quietly, ‘I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot, my love, what with you bein’ a friend of Eddie’s and all, but one more insinuation like that from you and it’ll take an extremely skilled surgeon to extract those dominoes from where I shove them. Are we clear?’
He laughed – a harsh cackling sound. ‘You’ve got a spirited one ’ere, Eddie boy.’
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ said the inspector. ‘Treat her nice, Weasel, or she’ll have you crying for your mother quicker than you can blink.’
Weasel grinned and nodded.
‘Let me get you another
drink,’ said the inspector. ‘What are you having?’
‘I’ll have another of their “old beers”,’ said Weasel. ‘When in Rome an’ all that.’
‘Brandy as usual for me, please, bach,’ I said.
‘Not only fiery, but classy with it,’ said Weasel. ‘Why can’t I ever meet a lass like you?’
‘Who knows?’ I said. ‘You seem like such a lovely bloke.’
He laughed again.
We said nothing further to each other until the inspector returned with our drinks.
‘Getting to know each other?’ he said with a frown as he set down the glasses.
‘Getting along famously, we are, aren’t we, darlin’?’ said Weasel.
I raised an eyebrow.
The inspector sat. He put a few shillings on the table, as though it were his change from the bar. He toyed with the coins as he spoke.
‘What have you got for me, Weasel?’ he asked calmly.
‘You in a rush?’ asked the informant.
‘People keep asking me that,’ said the inspector. ‘I suppose I must be. I’ve always got better things to be doing than chasing round after you. And you know how much I hate wasting my time. So, yes, let’s say I’m in a rush.’
‘All right, all right, keep your hair on. Just messin’ about. I ain’t never steered you wrong, now ’ave I? I don’t waste your time. Old Weasel always comes up with the goods.’
‘Eventually,’ said the inspector, tapping a coin on the beer-stained table.
‘All right,’ said Weasel, putting up his hands. ‘I ’eard you was lookin’ into the fire next door. I ’eard you upset a few people down at the Bridewell who reckon they’ve got it all wrapped up in a neat little bow already.’
‘Are they right?’
‘About that suffragette woman?’ asked Weasel slyly. ‘I reckon they are.’
‘How so?’
‘I saw her in ’ere that night. Dark coat, big hat. She sat over there in the corner where the light don’t shine. But I could see she had a white dress and white boots like they all wear. You know?’
‘I know,’ said the inspector.
