A Death in Chelsea

by Lynn Brittney

  “It’s possible,” Tollman conceded, “but we would have no way of telling from the fingerprints. We didn’t take suspects’ fingerprints fifteen years ago and that’s the only time, to my knowledge, she’s been the subject of an investigation.”

  “So, we need to find Sydney,” said Billy.

  “If possible, before Carter and his mates,” said Tollman grimly, “but that’s going to be difficult as they will probably already be crawling all over the Underground system looking for him.” Tollman stared ahead, at nothing in particular, and looked dissatisfied. “The thing is, Billy, if Adeline Treborne was blackmailing Ruth Baker, what was it all about? Unless Miss Treborne had proof that Baker had murdered those babies fifteen years ago…”

  “Or Baker had started up her old business again…” Billy offered.

  “Mm.” Tollman wasn’t convinced. “It’s going to needle me until we find the truth,” he said. “We need to talk to Mr Beech.”

  ***

  Elsie Rigsby savoured her cup of tea and Battenburg cake as she surveyed the gaggle of women sitting around at the servants’ sewing circle. It was a lively group. The woman who ran it, a Mrs Leighton, was outgoing and friendly. Elsie had been welcomed with open arms, introduced to the others and immediately given refreshments.

  She watched while Mrs Leighton circulated among the women and stopped now and then, appearing to have a little confidential chat with certain individuals. Elsie estimated that Mrs Leighton was in her mid-thirties. She was well-dressed, trying to be middle-class, Elsie thought, and there were flecks of grey in her blonde hair. She thought she detected a touch of powder and paint on the woman’s face, but she wasn’t sure. If Sissy were here, Elsie thought, we would probably have decided that the woman was attractive but with pretensions. That was the label that the two sisters apportioned to anyone who was trying to be better than they should be, whether it referred to age, class or education.

  “So, how did you hear of us, Mrs Rigsby?” asked Mrs Leighton, sitting down next to her with a smile.

  “Oh, my employer, Lady Maud Winterbourne, was told about it by Lady Donaldson. I believe you have some of her girls here?” Elsie replied, returning the smile.

  “Yes, we do! Marjory over there and there’s Daisy, who comes on our other meeting day. Do you know anyone here?” Mrs Leighton seemed very curious.

  “No,” answered Elsie, with a small, regretful smile. “I’ve only just returned to service. I was widowed, you see, and needed the extra money. Fortunately, a job came right up. Lady Maud’s been having trouble getting youngsters, because they all want to go off and work in factories, where they earn more.”

  “Have another cake, Elsie. May I call you Elsie? I’m Louise, by the way.” She gave Elsie a smile and nose-wrinkle that intimated they were going to be firm friends. Elsie decided, at that moment, that there was something suspicious about this overly friendly woman, but she was determined to play the game.

  “This is such a lovely idea, to have a sewing circle, Louise,” she said flatteringly. “How long have you been running it then?”

  “Oh, about two years. I felt very strongly that ladies in service needed somewhere to go, on their days off. I mean, we can’t go to pubs, like the men, can we?”

  “No.” Elsie felt like heading for the nearest public house right now. A gin wouldn’t go amiss. All this cloying sweetness of ‘all ladies together’ was making her head ache. “Were you in service, Louise? Only you sound as though you understand what it’s like for those who are.”

  Louise smiled. “I was, once upon a time,” she said, thus confirming Elsie’s suspicion that Mrs Leighton ‘had pretensions’. “Lady’s maid to a French Countess,” she continued. Ooh, la la, thought Elsie, ’course, she wouldn’t be just a normal maid, would she?

  Louise smiled again. “I travelled the world with the Countess! Monte Carlo, Cannes, Nice, Florence… oh, so many beautiful places.” Garn! thought Elsie. I bet she hasn’t been anywhere further than Bournemouth.

  Louise was in her stride now. “But then I met my dear husband, Mr Leighton. He owned his own shop, selling luxury goods, and of course I had to leave my position with the Countess. She was absolutely bereft and didn’t know how she would ever manage without me! But she did, of course. Our employers always replace us with ease.”

  Elsie tried to look suitably impressed and said, confidentially, “I don’t think that our employers ever really think anything of us at all. We’re just a convenience to them, aren’t we?”

  Louise Leighton looked interested. “Are you not happy in your place of employment then, Elsie?”

  “Oh no! Don’t get me wrong. Lady Maud is a good employer. She treats her staff well – what staff she’s got.” She lowered her voice for effect. “I don’t think she’s that well off, really, not since General Sir Richard Winterbourne died.”

  “Oh, poor woman!” whispered Louise, “I’m finding more and more that the upper classes are not doing very well, financially, since this war started.”

  “I know what you mean,” Elsie agreed, “I think the worry of it is what drives Lady Maud to her… little eccentricities.”

  Louise’s eyes widened, and her cheeks took on a slight flush. Aha! That’s got you interested, thought Elsie.

  “Eccentricities?” Louise was almost quivering with anticipation.

  “Oh dear. I think I’ve said too much…” Elsie decided not to be too cavalier with criticisms of her ‘employer’.

  “Nonsense,” whispered Louise. “You have to unburden yourself to someone. That’s what this little group is all about. Somewhere for ladies to relax and talk to like-minded women, who understand the difficulties of being in service.” She decided to go further in her efforts to convince Elsie to open up. “For example, Maisie, over there, works for Lady Patrick, who is American and quite odd, so she tells me. Whereas Doris, over there, works for Lord and Lady Sedgewood. Apparently, he is nice enough – what one would expect from an English lord – but she is foreign and is very demanding, to the point of unpleasantness, and has some very dubious relatives who are constantly visiting. Poor Doris is beside herself sometimes. If she didn’t have us to come and talk to, she would be quite distressed.”

  “Oh, I can understand that,” whispered Elsie sagely. “Her mistress sounds terrible. It’s nothing like that with Lady Maud. She is always pleasant… when she’s sober.”

  “Oh dear!” said Louise, her eyes widening. “That must be a trial for you?”

  “It can be.” Elsie was in her stride now. “I’ve got used to putting her to bed when she’s insensible, poor woman. I think she drinks because she’s lonely. Her daughter lives with her, but she’s always out, and a daughter is not the same company as a husband, is she? The drinking and… the other little problem… are just the acts of a lonely woman.”

  “Other problem?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Elsie, you said… the other little problem.”

  “Oh,” – she leaned towards Louise, who met her halfway – “I shouldn’t say anything, really… but she steals things…”

  “What?!”

  “Shoplifts,” and she nodded to Louise as though that were explanation enough.

  “Oh. My goodness!” Louise was shocked, but a small half-smile played around her lips. “What sort of things does she steal?”

  Elsie pretended to be puzzled. “Well that’s just it… silly things really. Paltry things, that she doesn’t really need. A cheap necklace here, a handkerchief there. She likes to spend her time in department stores. I’m surprised she hasn’t been caught by now!”

  “I believe it’s called ‘kleptomania’, Elsie,” said Louise knowledgeably. “A proper mania. I’m not sure that even a doctor can cure it.”

  Louise Leighton stood up and clapped her hands for attention. “Well, ladies,” she said in a loud, firm voice. “I hope you have a
ll enjoyed your little natterings today.” A laugh rippled around the room. “But, sadly, we have to vacate the premises in half an hour and, yet again…” she said in mock reproach, “we seem to have done precious little sewing!” There was more laughter. “So, if you would just like to help me clear away and wash the crockery, I would be very grateful.”

  There was a bustle of activity. Chairs were put at the side of the hall, cups, saucers and plates were gathered up, cakes were wrapped in greaseproof and packed away in Mrs Leighton’s basket. Elsie was just drying some crockery with a cloth when Louise said, “Wait for me, Elsie, and we shall walk together. I’m going your way.” So, there was nothing Elsie could do, except smile and nod. Now she would have to walk back to Lady Maud’s house, which was in completely the opposite direction to her own home.

  Everyone scattered outside the hall and went off in groups of twos and threes. Elsie and Louise walked at a leisurely pace through the streets. During their stroll, Louise told Elsie how her husband, “who was sadly deceased and was the kindest man who ever lived,” had come up with the idea of the sewing circle. “Louise, he said to me,” she recounted, with a distressed look on her face, “Louise, it is our duty to help those who are less fortunate than us. Think of all the lonely days and nights you spent as a lady’s maid. It is your job to give those poor souls a little cheer and companionship in life.” She turned to Elsie. “And that is how the sewing circle was born.”

  “Fancy,” said Elsie, trying to keep a straight face. She’s laying it on a bit thick, she thought.

  They were now outside Lady Maud’s house and Elsie had to make the awkward decision to go inside, through the servants’ entrance, of course.

  “Well, here I am,” she said breezily. “So I’ll have to take my leave now. It’s been a pleasure, Louise, and I shall look forward to coming along next week.”

  Louise smiled, and Elsie could see that she was taking in every detail of the house. “I shall look forward to seeing you.”

  She seemed reluctant to move on, so Elsie took a breath and darted down the steps to the kitchen door, praying that it would be open, and she wouldn’t have to knock. Thankfully, it yielded when she turned the handle and she swiftly went inside and shut the door behind her. Her heart was pounding, and she leaned back against the door, hand on her chest, to quiet herself.

  Mrs Beddowes looked up from her pastry-making with a startled and quizzical expression and Elsie quickly put her finger to her lips to indicate silence. She moved to the kitchen window and looked up the stairwell, noting gratefully that Louise Leighton was now walking away. She was joined by a curious Mrs Beddowes, who followed her gaze.

  Elsie looked at her, held out her hand and said, “Billy Rigsby’s mum – Elsie – pleased to meet you. You wouldn’t happen to have a drop of gin about you, would you?”

  ***

  Beech was back in Scotland Yard, having walked all the way from Piccadilly in frustration and confusion. Victoria’s tirade had stung him. He thought he had been perfectly reasonable and gentlemanly while conducting the interview with Lady Patrick. It was true that such a beautiful woman had thrown him off balance. His judgement had been impaired. Damn it! Victoria had been right, of course. As a policeman, he should never have been swayed by a pretty face.

  By the time he reached Scotland Yard, his leg was throbbing like fury and he was in a temper to match. To cap it all, he was faced with a pile of paperwork, which merely served to highlight his feeling that he was less of a policeman and more of a bureaucrat.

  Tollman knocked on his door, with Rigsby in tow. He was clutching the fingerprint report, but first he had to tell Beech about the death of Ruth Baker, her connection to the Treborne case and the fact that her missing husband’s fingerprints were found in Adeline Treborne’s apartment.

  To his surprise, Beech barked, “Right! That’s it! No more prevarication. Tollman, I want the fingerprints taken of Sir Anthony Jarvis and his son, the two porters and the boot boy at Trinity Mansions, the live-out maid, the manager of Marchesi jewellers, the editor of the London Herald and the man who lives opposite the Treborne apartment. We need to find out if any of them match the unknown fingerprints in that report.”

  Tollman looked flabbergasted. “I thought we’d ruled out most of those people as not physically up to being the hangman.”

  Beech answered rattily, “I gave you an order, Tollman. Let’s observe proper police procedure, please.” Then he bent his head over his paperwork as a signal that they should leave.

  Billy raised his eyebrows at Tollman, who, by the set of his mouth, had decided to be stubborn.

  “Very well, sir, we will do that, even though I believe we should be out looking for Sydney Baker.” Beech flashed him an angry look but Tollman continued anyway. “I am simply concerned that Sydney Baker will blurt out all he knows, or is involved in, on the Adeline Treborne case and the Commissioner will blame us for the news getting out.”

  Tollman’s observation hit home. Beech sighed and threw down his pen. There was a moment’s silence while Beech composed himself, then he said simply, “You are right, of course. How should we best proceed?”

  Tollman breathed easily again. “Let me and Billy go out and find Sydney Baker. I have a few ideas of where he could be. But we need a letter from the Commissioner – something to show to the boys from CID – to say that… I don’t know… that Sydney Baker may be involved in some case to do with the War Office. Anything, just so we get first dabs on him.”

  Beech nodded. “I can do that, if you wait for ten minutes while I appraise Sir Edward of the situation and get his signature on a letter.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tollman was satisfied.

  “Tollman?” Beech added. “What happens if the CID chaps find Baker before you do?”

  “Then Sir Edward will have to step in and make sure that he is removed from their custody and placed into ours before any interviews take place.”

  Beech nodded. “Yes, of course. Wait downstairs and I will bring the letter to you.”

  After Beech had left, Billy heaved a sigh of relief. “What rattled his cage, then?” he murmured to Tollman.

  Tollman shook his head. “Dunno, son. But he was limping badly again. Maybe he was in a lot of pain and not thinking straight.”

  They waited downstairs in the main foyer, Tollman flipping his hat between his hands with impatience. Suddenly Stenton appeared, slightly out of breath and clutching another buff file.

  “You don’t half get about, Tollman!” he complained. “I’ve been all over the building looking for you.”

  “What is it?”

  Stenton sat down next to them and lowered his voice. “Fingerprinting has just come in from the Baker killing. They got them off the knife that was sticking out of her chest…”

  “Weren’t the husband’s, were they?” Tollman said with certainty.

  Stenton smiled. “You smarmy bugger! You’re always right, aren’t you?”

  “So, whose were they?” asked Billy, butting in impatiently.

  “They don’t know, son,” Stenton said, opening the file in his hand and pointing at the report. “All they know is that the fingerprints on the knife match one of the unknown sets of fingerprints in that file I gave you earlier.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Hunt for Sydney

  Billy had never seen such an old woman. She had wrinkles on wrinkles – her face was wreathed in them and her faded blue eyes looked him up and down and then she broke into a toothless grin.

  “You’re a big boy, aren’t you? Like my Sydney.”

  Billy nodded and grinned back. Tollman returned from the bar with two half pints of stout, which he placed in front of the old woman.

  “There you are, Mrs Baker. That’ll keep you going for another eighty years!” The old lady cackled and shakily lifted one of the half pints to her eager lips and slurped
noisily.

  This was the third pub they had been in around Holborn, looking for Sydney Baker’s mother, and finally they had found her.

  “Carter and his boys don’t know about Sydney’s mother,” Tollman had said confidently, as they strode around the streets that fed off Gray’s Inn Road. Billy had noted that they were searching in some of the worst slum areas in London. The foetid back-to-back houses, with no running water, still with the Victorian standpipe in the centre of the cobbled street, were alive with grubby children and scowling women.

  “The Germans would be doing us a favour if they bombed this lot,” he had muttered, earning him a sharp rebuke from Tollman.

  “What about the people crammed in these slums?” Tollman had said sharply. “Don’t you care if they’re bombed?”

  Billy had blushed. “Sorry Mr Tollman. I didn’t mean that…”

  Tollman had softened. “No, I know, lad. Don’t take any notice of me. I’m wound up about finding Sydney. You know,” he had then decided to explain, “some people just get a raw deal in life. Take Sydney’s mum. Violet. Born and then immediately put into the Foundling Hospital up the road here. Spent most of her life as an adult in and out of the Holborn Workhouse round the corner, while her feckless husband was in prison. Then she and Sydney ran a stall in Leather Lane, just next door, for about twenty years eking out a meagre existence. Then Sydney meets Ruth and marries her. But,” he had said firmly, “Sydney has never, never abandoned his mum. Next to his wife, his mum is the most important person in the world to him and if anyone knows where he is, it’s Violet Baker.”

  So, they had continued to search the places Violet was known to frequent. She regularly used to toddle up to the Booth’s Gin Distillery in Clerkenwell where she knew the bottling plant foreman and he would give her a tipple of gin to set her up for the day – but she hadn’t been there for a couple of days. Then there was Nicholson’s Distillery, also in Clerkenwell, where she had a similar arrangement, and they were told that Violet had been and gone at about ten that morning. Finally, they went to Reid’s Brewery, off Leather Lane, where people like Violet could partake of a pint of ‘slops’ (the run-off beer from the casking process) for a farthing. But she hadn’t been there. A drayman was loading casks on to a cart and he knew Violet Baker.