An Unwelcome Guest

by Emily Organ

  “Goodness. Where is that child now, I wonder?”

  James gave a sad shrug. “She was clearly literate,” he continued, “because she read the newspaper and was in possession of a notebook and pencil.”

  I placed the coded message back on the table and picked up the notebook. I flicked through its pages but saw nothing written within them. There were a number of rough edges where pages had been ripped out.

  “Is there any money in her purse?”

  “Six shillings.”

  “That would pay my rent for almost three weeks,” I said. “Do you think that was the amount Mr Gallo paid her?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “And the staff at the shop where she bought the dress had no recollection of her?”

  “No, so I’m wondering whether the hat and dress were borrowed.”

  “Miss Hamilton was a mother,” I said, “which means someone must be missing her. A common-law husband perhaps? A child? Not to mention parents, brothers, sisters, and friends… I cannot understand it.”

  “It’s likely that she was leading rather a secretive life, so those closest to her may have been completely unaware of her profession. She may not have seen them for a good while.”

  “But she had a child. Or maybe more than one.”

  “Perhaps someone else is bringing up the children. Miss Hamilton was unmarried, so perhaps the child or children went to a foundling hospital. We have a lot of questions and very few answers at this stage,” said James, picking up the scrap of paper with the code written on it. “But I know a man who will be able to help us with this.”

  Chapter 27

  James and I walked down Whitehall toward Westminster. Ahead of us, the clock tower of Big Ben was only just discernible in the fog.

  “How are you feeling about the court case?” I asked.

  “I’ve been trying to forget about it.”

  “But it’s only two days away.”

  “I prefer not to be reminded of it!”

  “May I accompany you?”

  “I would rather you didn’t, Penny.”

  “But you won’t have anyone else there with you,” I remonstrated. “Your family won’t be attending, I presume.”

  “No, they won’t. But I’ll have my solicitor with me.”

  I gave a hollow laugh. “A solicitor is hardly good company.”

  “A solicitor is pragmatic and does this sort of thing on a regular basis. His company will be all I need.”

  “But it will be terribly difficult for you! I suspect the entire Jenkins family will be there.”

  “They will be, but that doesn’t mean that I need an army with me.”

  “It would just be me, James, and I wouldn’t exactly consider myself an army. We needn’t even be seen together; I could hide myself among the public benches.”

  “I won’t have you involved.”

  “I wouldn’t be involved! I can simply hide there, and perhaps just the thought that I am there with you might help a little. I can’t bear the thought of you having to cope with it on your own.”

  “I will manage perfectly well.”

  “Will you?”

  James stopped and turned to face me. “You never give up, do you?”

  “Please, James. I promise I’ll stay out of the way. I just want to be there for you.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “If the Jenkins family see you…”

  “They won’t!”

  Little Smith Street was a short lane tucked between Westminster Abbey and the gas works.

  The housekeeper who answered the door led us up a narrow staircase and into a room that was hazy with tobacco smoke. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a man with thin wisps of white hair was bent over a desk beside the window.

  “Mr Hobhouse?” enquired James.

  The old man turned to face us. He wore a pair of spectacles and a second pair rested on his large forehead.

  “Blakely, isn’t it?” he said, after squinting at James for a short while. “You’re Roger’s boy, aren’t you?”

  “I am indeed, Mr Hobhouse.”

  The old man rose up out of his seat and walked over to us with a lopsided gait.

  “And how is your father?”

  “He is enjoying his retirement.”

  The old man tutted. “I don’t believe in retirement.”

  “It’s probably just as well, Mr Hobhouse, as there’s something I need your help with. I must introduce you to Miss Green here. She’s a reporter for the Morning Express newspaper and is helping me with a case I’m working on.”

  Mr Hobhouse surveyed me. “I like to see a lady doing something useful. A reporter, you say? I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Green. Now, what have you got for me, young Blakely?”

  James gave him the scrap of paper he had found in Miss Hamilton’s bag. Mr Hobhouse removed his spectacles and lowered the pair he had worn on his head.

  “Hmm. I can’t immediately see an indication of commonly used letters,” he muttered. “Did you find any other pieces of paper with notes written on them?”

  “No.”

  “It would have been a little too convenient to have done so, I suppose, but I need more than this to crack the code. Are you sure you haven’t come across a key?”

  “A door key?”

  “No, no.” Mr Hobhouse gave a dry cackle. “A cypher is solved with a key, you see. The recipient of this message needs another piece of information in order to decypher it. That’s what we call a key. It’s no good sending someone a jumble of letters and hoping they can make sense of it. The key must be agreed between the sender and the recipient. Are you certain there was nothing else to accompany it?”

  “No. We found this piece of paper among the belongings of a lady who was tragically murdered. There was nothing else written down anywhere.”

  Mr Hobhouse hobbled back to his desk, picked up a magnifying glass and examined the piece of paper again. “She must have had the key somewhere,” he muttered. “It was either written on a piece of paper or committed to memory. She’s deceased, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh dear. If she memorised the key, this message will be rather difficult to decypher.”

  “Can you do anything with it at all?”

  Mr Hobhouse sighed and switched his spectacles over again.

  “Well, I can try, I suppose. But it may take me some time and I can’t promise anything. I’m not getting any younger, Blakely!”

  “I realise that, Mr Hobhouse.”

  “In fact, my brother died of old age two months ago, and he was three years younger than me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “I’m not asking for sympathy, Blakely. I’m merely emphasising how ancient I am.”

  “Do you think you’ll be able to help us?”

  “I might and I might not. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Can we be sure that it’s even a cypher?”

  “What else could it be?”

  “Well, I don’t really know.”

  “Of course it’s a cypher, young man. Why else would someone write down a series of otherwise meaningless letters?”

  “Let’s take a cab to Albemarle Street and speak to the ladies’ outfitters that supplied Miss Hamilton’s dress,” said James once we had stepped back onto Little Smith Street.

  “Haven’t Fenton’s men already made enquiries there?”

  “They have, but there can be no harm in visiting a second time.”

  James hailed a cab and we climbed inside.

  “I hope Mr Hobhouse will be able to decypher the secret message,” I said. “He didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic about doing so, did he?”

  “Oh, I think he was just being cantankerous, it’s his manner. He’s been like that for as long as I’ve known him; all my life, that is.”

  Brightly coloured fabric gleamed through the leaded glass windows of Webb and Courtney on Albemarle Street. We stepped inside.

 
; “This is the dress,” said James, pointing toward a gown with a red and green bodice trimmed with red ribbon. The voluminous skirt was a startling green satin decorated with red fringing. I pictured the dress being worn by a tall, dark-haired lady wearing a matching hat with an ostrich feather in it. She must have been a sight to behold when Mrs Mirabeau answered the door to her that fateful evening.

  “Can I help you?” asked a lady in a violet bustle dress, who had been regarding us coolly. Her brusque question suggested that she immediately suspected we had no intention of buying anything from her.

  I introduced myself and James, and she seemed more bothered by the fact I was a news reporter than him being a police officer.

  “Inspector Blakely and I regularly work together,” I said. “My discretion in this matter is assured.”

  My words did not appear to convince her.

  “If this is regarding Mr Gallo’s murder, I’ve already spoken to the police,” she said.

  “So I understand,” said James, “and I am very sorry to trouble you further, but we are extremely keen to establish the identity of the poor young lady who lost her life at the same time as Mr Gallo.”

  “I can’t tell you any more than I’ve already said.”

  “I didn’t catch your name, madam,” said James.

  “Miss Webb.”

  “Miss Webb, I was wondering whether the lady might have borrowed the dress from someone, and if that person was perhaps one of your customers. I have written down the measurements of the dress.” He took out his notebook and showed her the notes he had made in it. “This should give you a good idea of the sizing. Could you tell us who has bought that particular style and size of dress from you?”

  “The customers I was able to tell the police officer about didn’t match the description of the lady who was murdered at all.”

  “I realise that. But I should like to speak to those customers, as it is more than likely that one of them will know who she is.”

  “Much as I’d like to help, Inspector, I don’t know how you’d go about finding the customers who bought this gown. I don’t keep a record of their addresses, I’m afraid.”

  “If any of them returns to this shop, could you please ask them to contact me at Scotland Yard?” James handed her his card. “We are extremely keen to establish the identity of the lady who was wearing one of your dresses the night she was killed. No one has come forward to report her missing yet, so her body lies unclaimed.”

  Miss Webb looked at the card in her hand and gave a long sigh. “There is one address you might like to try, Inspector. I know that a few of my customers live there. I don’t recall any of them buying the red and green dress, but it might be worth making enquiries with them.”

  Chapter 28

  The address Miss Webb had given us turned out to be a smart, four-storey, terraced house on Old Cavendish Street, just north of Oxford Street. A young maid opened the door.

  “Hello. Do you know a Miss Hamilton?” James asked her.

  “Can’t say as I do.” The girl shook her head.

  “I apologise, I had hoped you might. I am Inspector Blakely of Scotland Yard, and my companion here is Miss Green, a reporter for the Morning Express newspaper. Can you tell me who lives here, please?”

  “There’s a few people what lives ’ere.”

  “Could you tell me their names?”

  The girl bit her lip.

  James drew his warrant card out of his pocket and showed it to her. “No one’s in trouble, but I should like to have as much information as possible about the tenants in this building, if you please.”

  “There’s Miss Larcombe, Miss Biden, Miss Kay, Mrs Marsden and Miss Evans,” blurted the girl.

  “I should like to speak to all of them, if I may.”

  “Only Miss Kay’s at ’ome.”

  “Might I speak with her?’

  The girl bit her lip again and left us on the doorstep while she went to fetch the lady in question.

  “Five women sharing a single house makes me wonder whether they are all employed in the same profession as Miss Hamilton,” whispered James. “Perhaps it’s a vain hope, but I pray that one of them may have encountered her.”

  A short while later, a pale-faced lady came to the door. She wore a simple grey dress and assumed a sullen expression when James explained who we were.

  “You have heard of the unfortunate death of Mr Gallo, I presume?” James asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you ever meet the man?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever see him anywhere? At a restaurant, perhaps? Or at the theatre?”

  “No, an’ I wouldn’t know what ’e looked like, anyway.”

  “Do you have a profession, Miss Kay?”

  “Of sorts.” She folded her arms and leaned against the door frame. “I’m a companion.”

  “A gentleman’s companion?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t solicit if that’s what you’re askin’. It’s all done by way of introduction.”

  “Are you aware that Mr Gallo’s companion lost her life on the night of his murder?”

  Miss Kay’s eyes widened. “No, I can’t say as I did.”

  “We’re trying to find out who she was. All we know is that the name she went by was Miss Hamilton. Do you know that name?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know of anyone with the initials A D?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any friends you haven’t heard from for a while?”

  She considered this for a moment. “Can’t think o’ none.”

  “Do you share this house with friends of yours?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are they in the same line of work as you?”

  “Can’t speak for ’em.”

  “I will make the assumption that they are, in that case. The maid informed me they are all out at the present time. Is that right?”

  Miss Kay nodded.

  “When they return, would you please ask whether they knew of a lady called Miss Hamilton, or whether they have a friend they haven’t seen for a few days? We’re desperate to uncover this lady’s true identity.”

  “And what if you ’appen ter find out who she is? What then?”

  “If we can learn more about her, we will hopefully discover more about the person who has done this to her. Miss Hamilton’s body currently lies unclaimed at the mortuary in Macklin Street. If her identity remains unknown she will receive a pauper’s funeral. She deserves to have her family with her, and she deserves a respectful burial.”

  Miss Kay gave a laugh. “I’m sure the coppers treated ’er with nuffink but respect while she were alive!”

  James sighed. “I cannot speak for the lady’s past experiences, Miss Kay, but it is my duty to find out who she was and who has done this to her.”

  “You wouldn’t care a bit about ’er if Gallo hadn’t croaked it as well.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Women like ’er are murdered ev’ry week, an’ the coppers ain’t never interested in finding out who did it to ’em.”

  “That’s rather an exaggeration, Miss Kay—”

  “No it ain’t!”

  “Arguing isn’t going to help anyone!” I interjected. “Please, Miss Kay, will you just ask your friends? Someone somewhere will be missing this Miss Hamilton. We know that she had at least one child.”

  The young woman’s sullen face softened slightly.

  “And we think someone lent her a dress,” I said. “It was a beautiful red and green satin gown from Webb and Courtney on Albemarle Street. In fact, the shop still stocks the dress. Perhaps you could go in and take a look, as the sight of it may spark a memory of Miss Hamilton. Perhaps you saw a lady wearing that dress, or maybe your friends would recognise it.”

  She gave a sigh. “I’ll take a look if I’m passin’ that way.”

  “Here’s my card,” said James, handing it to her. “If you or your friends can help at all, ple
ase come and find me at Scotland Yard.”

  “Anythin’ in it for me?” she asked with a hostile stare.

  “Yes. The knowledge that you will be helping to bring about justice for poor Miss Hamilton.”

  She continued to stare at James.

  “Very well.” He extracted a half-crown from his pocket and gave it to her. “Now I really do expect you to help us, Miss Kay.”

  “I intend to put out an appeal for help in the Morning Express,” I said as we walked along Oxford Street.

  “We mustn’t upset Mr Gallo’s family,” replied James.

  “We needn’t say that Miss Hamilton had anything to do with Mr Gallo; it will be a simple request for help. She cannot go on lying in the mortuary unclaimed, and as you rightly say she will end up being given a pauper’s funeral with no one in attendance before very long. She won’t even have a headstone. What could be written upon it when we know so little about her?”

  “Very well. But you won’t mention murder or Mr Gallo, will you?”

  “No, I shall be discreet. You can trust me, James.”

  An appeal for information was printed in the Morning Express the following day.

  Information requested in relation to a lady believed to be called Miss Hamilton, but who may be known by another name, with the initials A.D. Aged between twenty-five and thirty years of age, she is five feet and seven inches in height with a slim build and long brown hair.

  “It is not a long description, but I suppose someone who knew the girl would recognise her from it,” said Mr Sherman, surveying the lines I had written in the morning edition.

  “I feel sure that if we had been allowed to make her death public knowledge we would know who she was by now,” I replied. “It angers me that her murder is receiving less attention because everybody feels the need to protect Mr Gallo’s reputation.”

  “And the feelings of his family,” added Mr Sherman.

  “Yes, I understand why that’s important, but it hardly seems fair to Miss Hamilton’s family.”

  “This is what happens when one pursues a certain profession in life,” Edgar chipped in. “One devalues oneself.”