First published by Mirror Books in 2019
Mirror Books is part of Reach plc
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© Lynn Brittney
The rights of Lynn Brittney to be identified as the author
of this book have been asserted, in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
ISBN 978-1-912624-38-6
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
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1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Every effort has been made to fulfil requirements with regard to
reproducing copyright material. The author and publisher will be
glad to rectify any omissions at the earliest opportunity.
This book is dedicated to my paternal grandmother
Rosie Jones (nee Thompson), who used to lay out dead bodies for her community, and to my maternal great-uncle Charlie, whose inability to speak properly because of a
cleft palate saved him from conscription into WW1
MAYFAIR 100 SERIES
INTRODUCTION
Mayfair 100, the telephone number of Chief Inspector Beech’s special secret team of amateur women detectives and professional policemen, had been silent for almost a month. After their first successful case, there had been no call to further action and the team were beginning to get frustrated.
Dr Caroline Allardyce, of course, had busied herself with her work at the Women’s Hospital, as had her colleague, the pharmacist, Mabel Summersby. Victoria Ellingham had tried to occupy herself with making use of her legal training and drafting amendments to the Factories Act, in the hope that her mother, Lady Maud, might be able to introduce them to some influential member of parliament. PC Billy Rigsby seemed to spend a lot of hours down at the Metropolitan Police Boxing Association. He couldn’t box any more but had decided he could train others. Or he spent time with his formidable mother and aunt, Elsie and Sissy, permanently ensconced as caretakers in an empty house in Belgravia. DS Tollman had been content to go to the Mayfair ‘head quarters’ of the team, just to play cribbage with Lady Maud and get away from his constantly squabbling daughters, but even he, Beech noted, had begun to get restless at the lack of another case.
As for Beech himself, he had been reluctant to pester the Commissioner for another case for the team. Sir Edward Henry had sanctioned the setting up of the team but on the strict terms that no one in Scotland Yard was ever to hear about women being used in detective work and that the team was only to be used when special circumstances warranted their attention. So, Beech waited and inwardly fretted – made excuses to the team and hoped for a new case to present itself. At last, his patience was to be rewarded…
CHAPTER ONE
A Family’s Honour
Scotland Yard, 2nd July 1915
Chief Inspector Beech stared at the morning newspaper, almost unable to comprehend the figures on the page in front of him. The war was not going well. It appeared that the Russian allies had been defeated by the Germans on the Eastern Front at the cost of hundreds of thousands dead and captured. The carnage was appalling, and the sense of defeat sat on his chest to the point of suffocation.
He looked out of the window and tried to imagine the disappearance of most of the population of London, which almost equated to the Russian loss, and his mind struggled with the concept. Beech knew that he was not the most imaginative man, at the best of times. He preferred to try to forget about his own terrible experiences in Belgium, but his thigh wound, legacy of the First Battle of Ypres, eight months ago, was a constant presence in his life now. The dull ache that reminded him he would never be the same again. Every day he struggled with the fear that his leg would not heal, and his eventual fate would be amputation. It hung over him like a sword of Damocles and the daily reminders in the newspaper of the continuing carnage of the war did nothing to lift him out of his trough of depression.
His reverie was broken by a sharp knock on his door.
“Come in,” he instructed, and the section sergeant put his head into the room, announcing briskly, “Commissioner requests to see you immediately, sir.”
Beech nodded and swiftly followed the sergeant down the corridor, where they parted company, as Beech ascended the staircase to Sir Edward Henry’s office.
Another sergeant nodded him through – “Sir Edward’s expecting you, sir” – and Beech entered to find the Commissioner offering a glass of water to a distressed lady.
“Ah, Beech… good man,” Sir Edward murmured. “I think we may have a case for your… er… special… team. Let me make the introductions. Ma’am, this is Chief Inspector Peter Beech… Beech, this is the Duchess of Penhere.”
Beech inclined his head in a small obeisance. “Your Grace,” he said firmly.
The duchess, struggling with her composure, similarly inclined her head and said, in a voice thick with grief, “Chief Inspector, I am grateful for your presence this morning. Sir Edward has intimated that you might be able to help me deal… no… extricate my family from a terrible situation.”
Beech’s interest was piqued. He had observed that the duchess was, to all outward appearances, firmly of the Victorian era. For a woman of her breeding to show such visible distress suggested a family ‘situation’ of dire proportions. “I will do my best, Ma’am,” he responded, with as much reassurance as he could manage.
The duchess sipped some water and tried to regain some equilibrium. Seeing that she was finding it difficult, Sir Edward stepped in.
“Shall I explain, Ma’am, about the unfortunate events that have brought you here?”
The duchess nodded, gratefully, and Sir Edward turned to Beech and began the explanation.
“The Duchess of Penhere’s daughter, Lady Adeline Treborne, was found hanged in her bedroom…” A small sob escaped from the duchess’s handkerchief-covered mouth. Sir Edward continued. “The Duchess is convinced that her daughter did not commit suicide but that she was murdered. The Duchess came straight to me this morning, after the discovery of the body. The late Duke and I were close friends,” Sir Edward offered by way of explanation.
Beech nodded and turned to the duchess, mustering as much gentleness as he could. “Ma’am, can you tell me why you believe your daughter was murdered?”
The duchess looked at Beech with a mixture of puzzlement and embarrassment. “Surely you have heard of my daughter… Adeline… Treborne?” Seeing the lack of recognition on Beech’s face, she persisted, “‘A Lady’s View?’”
Sir Edward interjected, “The Duchess’s daughter was a well-known… er… society commentator… in the London Herald.”
Beech looked nonplussed and the duchess said patiently and with a certain amount of bitterness, “Chief Inspector Beech, my daughter peddled the worst kind of gossip in the ‘society’ pages of that dreadful newspaper. She had created, I understand, a great many enemies by writing scurrilous things about perfectly respectable people. Her activities greatly distressed our family and we were barely on speaking terms. Nevertheless, Adeline would not have killed herself. She had too much self-regard and, whatever else she may have been, she tried to be a good daughter of the Catholic Church and would not have disgraced her family eve
n further by committing the crime of taking her own life. She would never have put us in the position of being unable to bury her in our family crypt. Her position in society meant everything to her.”
Beech tried to reconcile the picture of an individual who spread malicious gossip in print about others with ‘a good daughter of the Catholic Church’. He could see that the duchess was struggling with her own inner conflict but, nevertheless, she seemed so firm in her belief that her daughter’s death was murder that he realised it must be investigated.
“Ma’am, where is your daughter’s body now?”
“She is still in her rooms in Chelsea. I thought it best not to disturb things too much. She was found…” – there was a small break in the duchess’s composure before she uttered the next word – “… hanging from her bedroom ceiling by the live-out maid. The poor woman was hysterical when she contacted me by telephone. I haven’t seen my daughter’s body… I’m afraid I lacked the courage. My chauffeur cut her down and laid her on her bed and he is now standing guard outside her door, in case anyone should seek entry. I came here immediately, in a taxi, to see Edward. He tells me that you have a special group of people who can investigate this terrible business as discreetly as possible?” The duchess looked at Beech hopefully.
“Yes, I do.” Beech looked at Sir Edward, unsure about the amount of detail he should reveal to the duchess. Sir Edward answered with a barely perceptible shake of the head, indicating that information should be kept to a minimum.
The duchess had one last request. “I would prefer it,” she murmured, looking at the floor, rather than at either of the two men, “if my daughter’s body were not cut up… mutilated… by a police surgeon. I would prefer it if that could be avoided.”
Sir Edward raised his eyebrows at Beech, obviously looking to him to provide a response.
“Your Grace,” said Beech earnestly, “I can assure you that no police surgeon will touch your daughter’s body,” and he was rewarded by a small nod of satisfaction from Sir Edward and a watery smile from the duchess.
The duchess rose to leave and both men rose also. “I wonder if you could take me back to my daughter’s rooms?” the duchess asked Beech. “My chauffeur can give you the keys to the apartment and then take me home, while you start your investigations.”
“Of course, Your Grace. If you will excuse me for a moment, I will order an automobile.” Beech stepped outside of the office to get the Commissioner’s sergeant to order up a police vehicle. Through the half-open door, he saw Sir Edward kiss the duchess’s proffered hand, murmur some words of comfort to her and then, offering his arm for her to lean upon, he escorted her to the door. Beech noted the intimacy of old friends and wondered about this odd pairing of two unlikely people – the Commissioner who had risen from the lowly middle classes and the impeccably aristocratic duchess.
“Keep me informed at all times, Beech,” Sir Edward said quietly as he transferred the duchess’s hand to Beech’s arm, and Beech nodded firmly.
Once settled in the police car, the duchess instructed the driver, “Trinity Mansions on Sloane Square,” and they settled in to an awkward silence in the gloom of the vehicle.
“Chelsea is such a raffish area,” the duchess murmured distastefully, “full of artists and writers and such. I should have preferred my daughter to live in Kensington or Knightsbridge. Much more suitable.”
There was a silence, as Beech was unsure how to respond.
The duchess spoke softly again. “I apologise if I am speaking ill of an area in which, perhaps, you might live. People of my age are apt to speak without thinking.”
Beech gave a small smile. “Please don’t concern yourself, Ma’am. I do not live in Chelsea.”
“Where do you live, if I may ask?”
“Albany, Ma’am.”
“Oh?” The duchess seemed enlivened by this piece of information. “Those rather nice Regency bachelor apartments near Piccadilly? My husband resided there before we were married! Not, of course, that I was ever permitted to visit,” she added hastily. “No, that would have been quite improper.”
There was a small silence and the duchess folded and refolded her handkerchief in her gloved hands. Even Beech, with his self-confessed lack of understanding of women, knew that this was a sign of her inner turmoil and he felt that he should distract her in some way.
“Your husband was a friend of Sir Edward’s, I understand?”
“Yes.” The duchess visibly brightened. “From India. My husband’s family had tea plantations. Edward was Inspector General of the Police in Bengal. He’s a terribly clever man, you know. The Duke admired him greatly…” She tailed off and pressed her handkerchief under her nose. Beech realised that the car was drawing up by Trinity Mansions.
“Your Grace,” he said quietly, “if you would be so good as to remain in this car, I shall go upstairs and find your man and send him down to you.”
The duchess nodded and took a deep breath. “The rooms are on the second floor. Number twelve.” Beech nodded. “Thank you, Mr Beech,” she added.
“I shall have to speak with you again, Ma’am.”
The duchess inclined her head in acceptance. “I shall await your visit in due course.”
Trinity Mansions was a well-appointed cavern of sizeable apartments on the north-east corner of Sloane Square. It was now a minute past ten o’clock; Beech noted the time from the large clock above the opening to the department store across the square. There was a degree of bustle around the streets, a jam of three omnibuses outside Sloane Square Underground station and a long queue of men had formed leading into the Duke of York’s Headquarters opposite the department store. Beech realised the men were waiting to enlist and this caused a momentary resurgence of the despair he had felt when reading this morning’s newspaper headlines. He scanned the line of hopeful recruits and noted how many of them were woefully under age. And he knew, with certainty, that the Army would not turn them away, even if they confessed their tender ages. Get on with your work, man, he thought, swallowing hard and mentally closing off his emotions as he turned away and took the steps into the building.
It was apparent, from the foyer, the wooden panelling and the luxurious carpeting, that the occupants of the building were reasonably wealthy. There was a porter’s cubicle with a sliding window but, at the moment, no occupant. There was a small lift, but Beech decided to take the stairs to the second floor. Scanning the door numbers, he followed them to the right and, as he turned a corner, he saw the chauffeur, seemingly deep in conversation with a uniformed man who was probably, Beech thought, the building’s porter. Producing his warrant card, he said,
“Chief Inspector Beech of Scotland Yard. The Duchess is waiting for you in a police car downstairs. She instructs you to turn over the keys to the apartment to me before you leave.”
“At once, sir,” the chauffeur replied, producing a set of keys from his pocket.
Beech took the keys and asked the chauffeur to wait a moment.
“I assume you are the porter?” Beech enquired, turning to the other man.
“Bailey, sir. I am the day porter in Trinity Mansions.”
“I see. And what time did you start today?”
“Seven o’clock, sir. I usually start at eight but Jenkins… he’s the night porter… sent the boot boy down to fetch me when the maid found the body.”
“You live down in the basement, Mr Bailey?”
“Yes, sir. My wife and I have two rooms – she’s the housekeeper here. Mr Jenkins has a room, the boot boy, David, has another and we have a shared kitchen.”
“No other staff?” Beech asked.
“Not living in, sir… for the whole building, I mean. Various tenants have their own arrangements. Some of the gentlemen have live-in valets, one lady in number seventeen has a live-in maid. Miss Treborne had a maid who worked from six thirty in the morning unti
l five in the afternoon.”
“Where is this live-out maid now?”
“Down in my rooms, sir. My wife gave her a sleeping draught, as she was so distraught, and tucked her up in our bed for a while.”
“Right.” Beech addressed both men. “I shall start my investigations and both of you will be about your business. You will not discuss the matter with anyone at all, is that understood?” Both men nodded. “Mr Bailey, some of my men will be along later today to interview you and the other staff. I would be grateful if you could keep Miss Treborne’s maid in your rooms until we return.”
“Yes, sir.”
Beech turned to the chauffeur. “We will visit the Duchess this afternoon, as part of our investigation, and we may wish to speak to you further… I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name…”
“Hobson, sir.”
“Well, Mr Hobson, just one last question. I understand that you cut Miss Treborne’s body down and laid her on the bed. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you touch anything else?”
“I opened a couple of large cupboards to find a sheet with which to cover Miss Adeline, sir,” he volunteered, “and then I picked up her keys and locked the door behind me.”
Beech noted that the man was wearing driving gloves. “Were you wearing your gloves all the time?”
“Yes, sir. I didn’t think to take them off… especially when handling a dead body. It’s not that I’m squeamish, sir, but… well… you know…”
“Yes, quite. Well, thank you, both of you. That will be all for the moment.”
Beech waited for the men to disappear down the stairs, put on his own leather gloves and then let himself in. Sir Edward, with his introduction to Scotland Yard of the fingerprinting system a few years ago, had impressed upon all the police force that gloves should be worn at all times when investigating the scene of a crime.
The living room was gloomy, as most of the windows were swathed in thick, red, heavily tasselled curtains. The décor seemed to him rather bohemian, but he would rely on others’ opinions on that matter. And certainly, untidiness could be added to the list of Adeline Treborne’s character faults, he thought, as he surveyed the piles of magazines and newspapers on the floor. There were two used dinner plates on the table – one meal was only half eaten – and two wine glasses, one containing the dregs of what looked like red wine. There were table lamps everywhere. There was an envelope addressed to Adeline Treborne and a single sheet of blank paper in a wastepaper basket by the coffee table, but nothing else.
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