Who's Sorry Now?

by Maggie Robinson

  “Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

  Addie tripped, and she could feel the chill of the hand that caught her through the fine wool of her coat. “Don’t you get tired of jumping out of the bushes?”

  “I’m jumping on the pavement, my dear. Not a bush to be seen yet. You shouldn’t be out alone, you know. It’s not safe. Anything might happen,” Rupert chided.

  “Anything has already happened. This area is perfectly safe.” Mayfair was as sought-after as it was in Regency days.

  “One might think so, at the exorbitant property prices. But even in the smartest postcodes, one never knows about one’s neighbors. There was a rumor, you know, that one of Edward the VII’s sons was Jack the Ripper, and you can’t do better than Buckingham Palace.”

  “Poppycock.”

  “Please allow me to be chivalrous. You’re too beautiful to be out wandering the streets alone. As beautiful as the night.”

  Addie felt her cheeks warm, and immediately was annoyed with herself. Bad enough to fall for Rupert’s charm while he was alive, but now? “Do not cozen me.”

  Rupert shrugged. “Well, it’s true. We already know a madman’s on the loose. I would so hate to have you become his next victim.”

  She wouldn’t like it much either. “Is it a man then?”

  “Ah. Slip of the tongue. Alas, as usual, I am not privy to the specifics. Just know when it is time to become your champion again, I stand at the ready.”

  “How very noble of you,” Addie murmured, hoping any passersby would think she was speaking to Fitz.

  They entered the park through the pillars. Several people were enjoying the cool spring evening on the benches placed throughout the winding path. Sitting down on one of them, Addie let Fitz off his lead, and he promptly went to lubricate the shrubbery.

  “I say, don’t we know those girls over there under the lamppost?” Rupert asked. Addie squinted in the dark, but could make out nothing more than two female forms engaged in a quiet yet lively discussion, judging from their hand gestures. “Stay right where you are. Back in a tick.”

  Fritz trotted behind Rupert, stubby tail wagging. Could the dog see him, or was it a coincidence? Ignoring Rupert’s instruction, Addie hopped off the bench to get her dog under control before he licked someone to death.

  She approached the young women, who fell suddenly silent.

  Gracious! “Nadia? Trix?”

  No. Not Trix. Upon closer inspection, it was her conniving cousin Mary Frances.

  Oh dear.

  Rupert put his finger over his mouth in warning, as if Addie didn’t know how to hold her tongue. Five years of marriage to the man was a good education.

  Obviously flustered, Nadia leaped off the bench. “Lady Adelaide! What are you doing here?”

  “Walking this disreputable little beast. I didn’t know you lived in the neighborhood.” Addie had called the girl this afternoon, ostensibly to see how she was faring after their horrible night. Nadia had claimed she planned on staying home. No mention had been made of clandestine meetings.

  “Oh, not too far. My parents live in Grosvenor Square.”

  Then why wasn’t she sitting in that park?

  “It’s a wonderful night for a walk, isn’t it? So clear and fresh.” Except for an occasional whiff of the Thames on the breeze.

  “Um. Yes.”

  Addie turned to Mary Frances, who was clad in a mink jacket with something white and shimmery underneath. She pretended she didn’t recognize the girl’s true identity, which was easy—Trix and Mary Frances were remarkably alike. “Do you have the night off from the Thieves’ Den, Trix? I imagine everyone there is just gutted about poor Roy Dean.”

  “Sure. But I gotta ankle. Nadia, you have my—uh—letter? ”

  Under the streetlight, Nadia flushed, but fished an envelope out of her purse. Mary Frances put it in hers, then rose. “Everything’s jake now. Toodles, ladies.”

  Addie waited for the young woman to disappear down the path. “That wasn’t Trix.”

  Nadia slumped back on the bench. “No.”

  “Is she the reason Prince Andrei is so upset with you?”

  “He’s always upset. He’s Russian. Haven’t you read the classics? Dostoevsky? Tolstoy? Gloom and doom from page one to The End. It’s required.”

  An education from Cheltenham Ladies College only went so far. No, Addie had not read either of them and wasn’t apt to. They didn’t sound at all appealing. “Why were you meeting Mary Frances?”

  “She helped me out with something.”

  Addie wondered what had been in the envelope. Surely not a love letter. “Did she supply the poison?”

  Nadia gasped, then jerked up from the bench. “What? What do you mean?”

  “Sit down.” Addie was a little surprised when the girl did without an argument. “The poison that was used to contaminate the drinks. Don’t be a Dumb Dora. It doesn’t suit you.”

  Over on the next bench, Rupert buried his face in his hands. It was a shame he couldn’t interrogate her himself. If he didn’t care for Addie’s methods, too bad. The sooner she got to the bottom of all this, the faster she could get back to Compton Chase.

  Of course, that meant leaving a certain detective inspector behind, but maybe Rupert too.

  “No! Of course not. I haven’t poisoned anyone. I have to go.”

  Addie grabbed her arm. “Not yet. I’m trying to help, Nadia. You ran off on me once; don’t do it again.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say!”

  Addie sat down next to her, and Fitz jumped into her lap. “The truth would be nice. The police are interested in Mary Frances, you know.”

  “How do you know?”

  How much should Addie reveal? “I met Mr. Hunter last summer at…at another case. Naturally when my sister was poisoned, he remembered me and warned me about some of the people that frequent the Thieves’ Den.”

  “Why hasn’t he arrested her then? What’s she supposed to have done?”

  “I think the better question is, what hasn’t she? The women she ‘works’ with have robbed countless homes and stores. Blackmail, drugs, nothing is beyond them.”

  Nadia kept her plush lips sealed.

  “You’re afraid, aren’t you?”

  At last, she nodded. “I did something stupid. It’s finished now.”

  “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me,” Addie said, frustrated.

  “I don’t need your help. I’ll be fine.”

  Addie knew when to give up. “Please yourself. But if you decide you do need a friend, I’m here.”

  Nadia stood up. “I really have to go. Andrei is dropping by.”

  “I thought he lived with your family.”

  “Um, what I meant is, he’s coming home. I know you mean well, Lady Adelaide, but…butt out, won’t you? This doesn’t concern you.” She moved swiftly down the walkway through the stone pillars.

  “Well, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him—or her—drink.” Rupert took Nadia’s place, stretching his legs out in front of him onto the path. Addie wondered idly if pedestrians could trip over them, or if he was somehow protected in his ghostly invisibility and they’d simply walk through.

  “What do you think Mary Frances has over Nadia?”

  “The usual, I expect. Drugs. Sexual indiscretions. Maybe even something at Whitehall. I don’t think the Dollies are into international intrigue yet, but one never knows with young women nowadays. They’re almost as incorrigible as young men.”

  “You sound like my mother. Andrei said Nadia quit her job. Maybe that’s why she said ‘it was finished.’”

  “Hm. Well, we’re not going to find out anymore sitting around here, and I confess my cold bottom is becoming a touch chillier. Say, what did you do with my new Chesterfield coat, my dear?�
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  “It went in the church jumble sale. I didn’t think you’d have need of it where you were supposed to go.” She’d given away everything of Rupert’s before she left for America, much as one does with a baby crib when one thinks one’s family is complete. Trust the Fellow Upstairs to have the last laugh.

  “That was bespoke,” Rupert said peevishly. “Now some farmer is probably shearing his sheep in it.”

  “How was I to know you’d return? After last August, I thought I had truly seen the back of you.”

  “No such luck. Now we’re partners in crime.” Rupert gave her a brilliant smile and she kept her fists firmly in her lap.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Sunday

  Dev’s mother had been scandalized when he told her he was going in to work at Scotland Yard instead of accompany her to church, as he often did as a dutiful son. Chandani Hunter took her Commandments seriously; as a convert, she could out-Anglican an archbishop. Dev sometimes wondered if his mother missed her original faith, but was too smart to ask.

  His own faith—what there was of it—was being sorely tried. Human nature being what it was, and police work engaged with the worst of it, meant he was constantly disappointed in his fellow man. All the philosophy and religious texts he studied for his own edification did not fully explain why men—and women too—so often chose the wrong path.

  But if they didn’t, Dev wouldn’t have job security, now, would he?

  Although that was being called into question. Deputy Commissioner Olive had stated in no uncertain terms that he expected the department to solve this case before others decided there were no consequences to killing off Bright Young People, and moved on to the middle-aged and elderly.

  “Leave the boy alone,” his father said, raising his eyes briefly from his newspaper. “If he’s to make anything of himself, it doesn’t matter whether it’s the Sabbath or St. Swithin’s Day. Murderers don’t check the calendar and wait for it to be convenient.”

  “Thank you, Father.” He didn’t bother objecting to the “boy” appellation—his father used it for anyone younger than fifty.

  “I still cannot like it. What is the expression…all work and no play makes Jack a dull dog? You need a personal life. Look at Bobby.” Dev’s mother had taken quite a shine to his sergeant and his family, particularly baby Joan. A colorful afghan and been knitted and presented.

  “Bob doesn’t shoulder the ultimate responsibility,” Dev said. Besides, this case did have a unique twist. He hadn’t enlightened either of his parents about Lady Adelaide Compton’s involvement. He could imagine their opinions well enough.

  “Will you come tonight for supper at least?”

  “I don’t want to promise anything, Ma.” He planned a visit to the Thieves’ Den before things got too lively. It might be the Sabbath, but that meant absolutely nothing to its thrill-seeking patrons. Freddy Rinaldi had had plenty of time to consider Dev’s words. Maybe he was ready to spill. If his membership kept dropping dead, it would be an incentive.

  Harry Hunter poured himself another cup of strong tea from a Rockingham Brown Betty. “You’ll figure it out. I have every confidence in you. Why, once…” His father proceeded to share a story from his own days with the Metropolitan Police that Dev had heard many times. An impossible case. A full complement of suspects, red herrings galore. Dev waited patiently as he always did until the miscreant was hanged, then bid his parents good-bye.

  He was behind his desk at eight, equipped with a bacon roll and a flask of coffee his mother had pressed upon him. The floor was nearly deserted, and Bob wasn’t due for another hour. Dev spread the contents of the relevant folders across his blotter, waiting for something to leap out at him. His instincts told him the Dollies were up to their pretty necks somehow in all this; he needed to find where they and his suspects intersected. It would be a feather in the department’s cap if he could reduce their crimes. They were a nuisance to the business community, but thus far they had not committed murder directly as far as Dev was aware.

  But if he could prove they had provided the cyanide for the first two killings, he’d finally be getting somewhere. The nicotine used on poor Roy Dean was easily obtainable from a variety of sources, but cyanide was a different matter altogether.

  He studied the abandoned mill robbery information. Impossible to know when it had been committed. But bolts of fine worsted fabric had turned up with several fences only recently, so the theft of the cyanide fit the time frame. The former manager of the mill seemed to think most of the chemicals had been binned, but apparently enough had been left to do their evil work.

  If Dev couldn’t get anywhere with Freddy Rinaldi tonight, maybe Trix would be more cooperative. He knew blood was thicker than water, but Trix seemed like a smart girl. Winding up in jail was probably not on her agenda.

  He looked up at Bob’s knock on the doorframe. He was early—he must want to make something of himself, too.

  Or little Joan’s crying had driven him to the comparative calm of Scotland Yard.

  “Morning, guv. There’s a chap downstairs to see you. Ollie Whatsis, the trumpet player with the band at the Thieves’ Den.”

  “It’s his band, Bob. Don’t demote him.” Ollie Johnson’s All American Band had gotten rave reviews from Those in the Know. Dev didn’t count himself as all that much of a jazz fan, and it was obvious Bob wasn’t.

  “Call down and have them send him up.” It was mighty early for a fellow who’d likely been playing all night long. Maybe Ollie Johnson had never even gone to bed.

  But instead of showing up in his white tie and tails, Johnson was in a sharp checked suit, his wiry hair tamed by hair oil. He looked far fresher than Dev felt. “Please be seated. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Wise choice. It’s pretty vile here. What can I do for you, Mr. Johnson?”

  “You told me to come any time if I had any news. I wasn’t sure you’d be here.” He looked around Dev’s semi-shabby office, obviously unimpressed.

  “Well, I am. No rest for the wicked.”

  “I’m leavin’ for Paris tomorrow night, and I’m taking Trix Harmon with me.”

  Dev felt a stab of disappointment. If he had expected Johnson to present the murderer on a silver platter, he was out of luck. “This is sudden.”

  The man shrugged his shoulders. “The French love their jazz. I’ve had a better offer for the band, and anyway, I can’t stay here. People are dyin’, ain’t they? I don’t want Trix mixed up in it anymore. That Rinaldi has no backbone. He’s runnin’ scared. Me, I’m just runnin’ with my girl. Getting’ out of the way. But I wanted to make sure me and my boys are off your suspect list. Trix, too. Wouldn’t do for the gendarmes to come knockin’.”

  “As I told you, we’ve ruled out any involvement of your band.” Dev paused, choosing his words carefully. “We believe Miss Harmon might be a person of interest in a very tangential way.”

  Johnson’s sculpted lips flattened. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Has she spoken to you about her cousin?”

  “She’s got too many cousins to count. Don’t have much truck with ’em.”

  “She was seen with this one just the other night at the club. Mary Frances.” Dev did not imagine the light of recognition in Johnson’s eyes at the mention of the name.

  “Oh. Her.”

  “She’s mixed up with a girl gang called the Forty Dollies. You’ve heard of them?”

  “Trix has nothin’ to do with that bunch. They’re one reason she wants to get away.”

  “They’re very persuasive, recruiting family members and neighbors in the Elephant and Castle district.”

  “They ain’t gonna persuade Trix. We’re gettin’ married tomorrow before we leave.”

  “My felicitations.” Were the French less race-conscious than the British?
Young Mr. and Mrs. Johnson had a difficult road ahead of them. Dev was reminded of his mother’s efforts to assimilate. It was a shame she had had to give up so much; she was very brave.

  Braver in some ways than her son.

  “I’ll want to interview her again before you leave,” Dev continued. “I had planned on dropping by the club tonight. You’ll both be there?”

  “Last show. Rinaldi don’t know it yet, though.” Johnson drew a breath. “I won’t let you bully her.” He looked ready to tangle with him, inside Scotland Yard or out.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. You can be present if you wish.” Dev wasn’t sure that was a wise tactic; Trix might be less than forthcoming if she was trying to impress her future husband with her virtue. But she’d been so prickly with him the other day—Johnson’s support might be beneficial.

  The musician leaned forward. “Look. Trix is just a kid. You can’t blame her for her family. We all got skeletons in our closets.”

  Dev had cousins on another continent—who knew what they were up to? He nodded. “Fair enough. Tell her I’ll stop in before the Thieves’ Den opens. Freddy too.”

  Johnson snorted. “Good luck with him. Man’s afraid of his own shadow.”

  “The beating can’t have helped.”

  “Something funny’s goin’ on there for sure. Good luck findin’ out what.” Johnson rose, and Dev extended his hand across the desk. After a second, Johnson shook it.

  “Good luck to you, too,” Dev said.

  Johnson probably knew a lot more than he was telling, but Dev didn’t blame the man for getting out while the getting was possible. He had a feeling the Thieves’ Den’s days were numbered. There were a dozen other private clubs the Bright Young People could indulge themselves in, so the pointless party wouldn’t stop.

  Bob popped his head in. “Any news?”

  “Not really. The Thieves’ Den is about to lose its band and hostess, neither of which should affect us much.”