The Burning Issue of the Day

by T E Kinsey

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘We’ll work it out.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ said the inspector. ‘This is beginning to look as though they might get away with it.’

  ‘Where’s Lady B?’ asked Miss Caudle. ‘Can’t she and I sneak back and keep watch on the Customs shed?’

  ‘She just went off to find somewhere secluded,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Call of nature.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Miss Caudle, ‘that’s not a bad idea. Where did she go?’

  Lady Hardcastle pointed towards two sheds built close together with a narrow passageway between them. ‘She disappeared over that way. She said something about it looking like the perfect spot.’

  ‘She’s not wrong,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘See you in a minute.’

  ‘Did you see anything?’ I asked Lady Hardcastle. ‘Of the theft,’ I added quickly when I saw the twinkle in her eye and knew there’d be a joke about Lady Bickle’s trip to the loo if I didn’t head her off.

  ‘Nothing more than you did, I don’t think,’ she said, still grinning. ‘The gold went in, the gold came out. Or didn’t. But like everyone else, my attention was somewhat diverted by the oil store going up in flames. One might almost think it were deliberate if one knew a competent arsonist.’

  ‘I most definitely do think it was deliberate,’ said the inspector. ‘The timing was perfect. I’m not sure they could have predicted the explosions, but a call of “Fire!” would have done the trick at that moment, even without them.’

  ‘Which means our old pal Beattie Challenger is probably around here somewhere,’ I said. ‘We should keep our eyes open.’

  Miss Caudle returned.

  ‘That’s much better,’ she said. ‘But no sign of Lady B. Are you quite sure she went that way?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ said Lady Hardcastle. She began looking around. ‘Where the devil can she be?’

  ‘Gone to look at the fire?’ suggested Miss Caudle.

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps. We should find her. I’m sure she can look after herself, but we ought to stick together.’ She pointed at Inspector Sunderland and me. ‘You two go that way, Miss Caudle and I will go this. We’ll meet you round at the other side of the oil shed.’

  ‘Any sign of her?’ asked Lady Hardcastle when we joined her at the opposite side of the shed.

  ‘None at all,’ said the inspector. ‘There’s a good deal of commotion to confuse things, but she’s easy to spot – you’re all wearing those matching jackets.’

  ‘We didn’t have time to shop for a selection,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We had to take what was available. These were the only ones shapeless enough to conceal—’

  The inspector put up his hand to stop her. ‘I know what you were trying to conceal,’ he said. ‘But they do make you very easy to spot in a crowd, and we definitely didn’t see her.’

  ‘Any sign of Challenger?’ I asked.

  ‘No, she’s long gone, I should imagine,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘You don’t think she . . .’ said Miss Caudle.

  ‘Nabbed Georgie and scarpered?’ I suggested.

  ‘It certainly crossed my mind,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Inspector, dear, can I leave Miss Caudle in your tender care? I think you two should hang around here in case she turns up. You can keep an eye on that Customs shed, too. Flo and I ought to head back into town. Challenger’s got a good head start, but Georgie’s Rolls goes along at a fair clip. We shouldn’t be too far behind her.’

  ‘The motor car’s a mile away,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, but whatever she came in will be outside the docks somewhere,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We have the same handicap as she does. Come on. Quicksticks.’

  She clomped off at an ungainly trot in her massive work boots. I shrugged at the others and followed.

  Ten minutes later we arrived at the wooded spot where we had left the Rolls-Royce. Lady Hardcastle was puffing like a train, so I invited her to settle into the driving seat while I cranked the engine to life. We set off back to Bristol at considerable speed.

  ‘I know it adds delay,’ said Lady Hardcastle once she had her breath back, ‘but we have to stop at Georgie’s house before we do anything else. We might end up needing to visit the ringleaders in their offices and we’ll get nowhere near them dressed like this. We need to change.’

  ‘Right you are,’ I said. ‘Although our next stop after that should be Challenger’s flat. If she’s panicking and holding Lady Bickle for any reason, that’s where she’ll take her. She’ll want to be somewhere where she feels safe, where she’s in control.’

  ‘Agreed,’ she said. ‘But if that turns out to be a dud, then we’ll visit Hinkley and Morefield, in that order. I can’t imagine anyone going to Crane in a crisis so we’ll call on him only as a last resort.’

  We purred along the road. Our sudden, near silent approach startled one or two horses, but I felt the safest I’d ever felt with Lady Hardcastle at the wheel. We definitely needed a better motor car.

  We saw no sign of Beattie Challenger on the way, but we had no real idea what we were looking for and there were other roads she could have taken, anyway. The journey home always seems much quicker than the journey there, but not this time. It seemed to take an age to get to Clifton and I was beginning to become a little anxious that we might have made the wrong decision in choosing to change out of our overalls before trying to hunt down Beattie Challenger and – we still assumed – her prisoner.

  Williams let us in without a murmur of protest and left us alone while we got dressed in the drawing room. We were hurrying out when we all but ran into Sir Benjamin, who was returning early from the hospital.

  ‘Hello, you two,’ he said amiably. ‘I thought you were off on an outing with Georgie, but then I saw the Rolls outside . . . Is everything all right?’

  ‘Right as rain, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle as she breezed past. ‘Nothing to worry about. Georgie will tell you all about it when she gets back.’

  ‘Gets back?’ he said. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Can’t stop, dear,’ she said. ‘Must dash. Tell you later.’

  I gave an apologetic smile and followed her out to the motor car.

  Once again we shot off at speed and hurtled through the streets of Redland to Beattie Challenger’s flat. We parked right outside the gate and tumbled through together, paying no attention to the screeching of the gate.

  Lady Hardcastle tried the door but found it locked. She rang the bell and began hammering on the knocker.

  ‘If you’ll just let me . . .’ I said, reaching for the picklocks in my brooch.

  The door opened to reveal a very stern-looking housekeeper.

  ‘Just what the dickens do you mean by making all that racket?’ she demanded.

  Lady Hardcastle pushed her firmly in the centre of the chest and sent her staggering backwards across the hall.

  ‘We haven’t got time for any of your nonsense,’ she said. ‘Get out of the way.’

  ‘Well, of all the . . .’ spluttered the housekeeper, but we were already most of the way up the stairs.

  Lady Hardcastle pointed at the doors and shrugged. I indicated the bedroom door, thinking it the most likely place to stash a prisoner. Surprise was lost – what with all the noise we made coming in – but there’s still some shock value in a sudden, violent entrance. Lady Hardcastle burst through the door and into Challenger’s bedroom with a yell. I was close behind her.

  We both stopped when we saw the revolver. It was unsteady in Challenger’s nervous hands, but it was unmistakably pointed at us.

  ‘I might have known it would be you two,’ she said. ‘You’re so clever with your amateur investigations and your codebreaking. But you’ve come unstuck now, haven’t you? Put your hands behind your heads and don’t move. I’ve got things to do.’

  On the floor lay Lady Bickle, her wrists and ankles tied. She was gagged with a cloth. Like us, she had changed her clothes and was wearing a white dress and white boots. Unlike o
ur change of clothes, though, hers didn’t even remotely fit her. The dress was far too baggy and much too short, and her heels barely fitted inside the tops of the daisy-patterned boots.

  Keeping the gun pointing in our general direction, Challenger used her free hand to slop paraffin from a bottle on to the prone figure of Lady Bickle. She also doused the bed, the rug, and the curtains.

  ‘Even if they do work out it was me,’ she said, ‘Beattie Challenger will be dead. Burned to a crisp in the remains of her flat. Probably had an accident with her paraffin and matches, they’ll say. She has a history of starting fires. Poor deluded creature. What? You look surprised. You didn’t know about my fires, did you? I’m very good at it. I love fire. A fitting end for Bonfire Beattie.’

  ‘You don’t think they’ll notice that the corpse is six inches taller than you?’ I said, trying to keep her attention on me. ‘Or that its hands and feet are tied together? And what about the other two bodies? Who are they supposed to be?’

  ‘Always so clever. Always got something to say. You never did know your place, did you, you—’

  The sound of the shot was no less startling for all that I knew it was coming. While Challenger had been watching me, Lady Hardcastle had been fiddling with the hat I had bought her for Christmas – the one that had been specially made and had a concealed compartment in the oversized crown to hold a derringer.

  Lady Hardcastle, always a crack shot, had caught Challenger’s gun arm, just below the elbow. In shock, she had dropped her own revolver. That was all I needed. A kick here, a slap there, an elbow where it will do the most good. With a final twist and a flick, Beattie Challenger lay unconscious on the ground.

  ‘Don’t just lie there, Georgie,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We need to get you out of those wet things. Flo, dear, could you toddle downstairs and see if the landlady knows where we might find a telephone? I think we need a little official help here.’

  Keeping a wary eye on Beattie Challenger to make sure she didn’t come to before Lady Hardcastle could secure her, I backed out of the room on my way to find the landlady. At the top of the stairs I turned, and my last conscious thought as I tumbled down them was, ‘After all that, brought down by a fat tabby. I bloody hate cats.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  I awoke, groggy and aching, in an unfamiliar – but blissfully comfortable – bed. This wasn’t at all what I had anticipated. As I had fallen, part of me had doubted ever waking up at all, imagining that I would almost certainly snap my neck as I reached the bottom. Even the optimist within me had imagined coming to on a stretcher in the back of an ambulance while a concerned attendant tried to reassure me that everything would be all right. A feather bed in a high-ceilinged Regency bedroom hadn’t featured in even the most outrageously positive possibilities.

  The door opened, and a familiar face peered round it into the room.

  ‘Ah, you’re awake,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘How wonderful. How are you feeling?’

  ‘I feel mildly non-compos, my lady,’ I croaked. ‘And it’s surprisingly difficult to move my left leg.’

  ‘The befuddlement will be due to the morphine they’ve been putting in you to dull the pain. The immobile leg is the principal source of that pain.’

  ‘I fell down the stairs.’

  ‘You very did.’

  ‘After tripping over a cat.’

  ‘An overweight tabby that answers to the name of Mrs Merryweather.’

  ‘And the leg?’

  ‘I never learned the names of your legs, dear. Have you named them?’

  ‘Is it broken?’

  ‘In two places,’ she said. ‘Hence the plaster of Paris and the aforementioned immobility. You were never one to do things by halves.’

  ‘I was taught always to do a thorough job. How long will I be like this?’

  ‘Five or six weeks, according to the quack. It might slow you down a bit.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll manage. How long have I been here? What happened at Challenger’s house? Is Lady Bickle all right? And what about Inspector Sunderland and Miss Caudle? Where’s the gold?’

  She laughed. ‘You’ve been here since last night – today is only Tuesday. Georgie Bickle is fine, but complains that she still smells of paraffin. I secured the Challenger woman after freeing Georgie and then managed to get hold of Simeon Gosling on the telephone. Without the inspector there, I had no idea who else to talk to, but Simeon spoke to the right people and we soon had Challenger cuffed and hauled away. The inspector and Dinah Caudle returned to town in the inspector’s motor car last night. Once the hubbub had died down at the docks, he had been able to telephone the Bridewell and alert them. The train was stopped at Chippenham, where they confirmed that the “gold” wasn’t gold at all. All hell, as they say, has broken loose, but there’s still no sign of the real gold.’

  ‘What about Morefield? Hinkley? Crane?’

  ‘The inspector was shrewd enough to pick Crane up first and he crumpled immediately. He squealed on the others, and even implicated the inspector’s chief superintendent – no wonder he couldn’t get permission to investigate more thoroughly. They’ve all been rounded up, including the chief super.’

  ‘Beattie Challenger?’ I said. ‘Have they charged her with the arson and Brookfield’s murder? What’s happening to Lizzie Worrel?’

  ‘Crane gave them chapter and verse on Challenger’s involvement in the whole thing. It seems that she was a very bitter, lonely woman, and was easily manipulated by a snake like Morefield. Having talked her into spying on the WSPU, it was easy to lead her to the next step, especially once Brookfield had thrown her over for Lizzie Worrel. He made some enquiries and found out that she had been suspected of arson several years ago. She was only too willing to brag about it to him when he wondered if she might be capable of carrying out some important work for him. She’s still bragging now, in fact. She’s been arrested, charged, and is due to take Lizzie’s place at the Lent Assizes. Lizzie herself was released this morning. She’s coming for dinner this evening. Everyone is, in fact. It’s going to be quite the party.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to wear,’ I said.

  ‘Nonsense. There’s a perfectly serviceable pair of overalls downstairs. I’ll have them cleaned and pressed.’

  ‘You’re too kind. But it’s all over?’ I asked.

  ‘More or less,’ she said. ‘There’s still no sign of James Stansbridge or his two hirelings. Nor the gold. The working hypothesis is that they somehow contrived to scarper with it during the commotion. A double-cross.’

  ‘They’ll not . . . get . . . far . . .’ I said, but sleep overtook me before I could say any more.

  I woke again at around five o’clock, feeling much more like myself. I struggled out of bed and managed to wash in the fresh water that had thoughtfully been put into the jug on the washstand. There was even a smart frock on the end of the bed. I struggled into it and inspected myself in the full-length glass.

  I was about to ring down to see if Lady Bickle’s lady’s maid might be able to let me have a needle and thread to make one or two slight alterations when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Are you decent?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Please come in,’ I said. ‘I’m up and dressed.’

  She opened the door. ‘How’s the dress?’ she asked. ‘I know it’s not quite your size, but better roomy than tight, I thought.’

  ‘It fits where it touches,’ I said. ‘It was a lovely thought. If you can scare up a needle and thread . . .’

  ‘I can go one better,’ she said. ‘If you’re happy to let her, Georgie’s lady’s maid – Miss Cordelia Ireland, if you please – has offered to make a few adjustments for you. She worked wonders finding a dress for someone of your diminished height, but unfortunately it seems the original wearer was a good deal wider than you.’

  ‘You think of everything,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘One tries. I’ll ask Georgie to send her up.’

  An h
our later, with a nip here, a tuck there, and a wide ribbon tied around the waist, the dress looked almost as though it had been made for me. I was ready to rejoin the land of the living.

  I made my way clumsily down the stairs, using the crutches I found beside the bedroom door. It was an awkward journey, fraught with danger, but I made it to the bottom without falling again, and stumped across the hall to the drawing room.

  I found Lady Hardcastle, Lady Bickle, and Sir Benjamin deep in conversation. Lady Hardcastle was mid-sentence as I entered.

  ‘. . . crossed the room, put the blotting paper on the table, and said, “And that, my dear, is why you should never let the Earl of Runcorn anywhere near an anvil.”’

  I’d heard the story many times before and it never failed to get guffaws, though it had long since ceased to amuse me. Luckily, Sir Benjamin was one of those unfortunate gentlemen who laughs on the in-breath so that he sounded like a sea lion barking, and I found his uninhibited joy to be thoroughly infectious. My own giggles set Lady Bickle off and we were soon all four of us helpless with mirth and quite unable to remember what we were laughing at. Sir Benjamin stood and opened his arms.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘It’s splendid to see you up and about.’

  ‘Thank you for taking such good care of me,’ I said. ‘That bed was wonderful.’

  ‘It’s the least we could do,’ he said. ‘After all you went through to save Georgie from being immolated by that awful Challenger woman, we couldn’t leave you to suffer one of the beds at the BRI.’

  ‘It’s much appreciated,’ I said.

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough for saving me. I can still smell that paraffin, you know.’

  Sir Benjamin, meanwhile, had helped me across the room to a vacant chair and was propping me up with cushions.

  ‘I often think you’re wasted as a surgeon, dear,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘You’d make such a lovely nurse.’

  He curtsied. ‘Got to keep the patient comfy,’ he said.

  ‘Are you taking notes, my lady?’ I asked Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’ll need to be entertained, too.’