by Lynda Wilcox
She walked up the steps, slipped her key into the lock and stepped into the darkened interior. Everything lay shrouded and covered in dust cloths and she picked her way warily down the hall with only the light from the transom over the door to guide her. The fuses had been removed and no lights were working. She made a mental note to bring a couple of torches with her, when she came back with Tilly.
The air smelt musty and stale and seemed to settle over her, wrapping her in silence. It took a deal of effort not to tiptoe.
At the end of the hall she put out a hand to the door into the servants’ quarters, groping for it in the darkness. A swing door, it opened both ways without a handle or knob and she pushed gently and peered beyond.
In contrast to the hall, the kitchen was dark, but candles and matches had been left on a table in the centre of the room. She crossed the floor, one hesitant step at a time, hands held out in front of her, unsure where the other furniture might be and anxious not to bark her shins against benches and chairs.
She groped around for the candles in their holders and quickly lit first one and then the other. By their flickering light, she gazed around, looking for the fuse box. She could not see one, and hoped that Tilly knew where it was. The idea of going throughout the house with only the light of candles or torches to guide them, did not appeal and she shivered in the cool air and nearly dropped the candle.
The air in the kitchen was fresh! What’s more, of the three remaining candles on the table, two were little more than stubs.
She hurried to the back door and found it locked and with no sign of the key. The hook upon which the key normally hung was empty. The windows, like those at the front, were shuttered and secure. Eleanor put her hands against the boards, but could feel no draught.
Standing with her back to the door she held the candle at arm’s length and stared at its unflickering flame.
“That’s odd.”
She didn’t stay in the house for much longer. An unwelcome feeling of apprehension saw her blow out the candle and make her way back down the hallway and out the front door.
When she arrived back at Bellevue Mansions, Tilly attempted to raise her mistress’s spirits by serving hot coffee and telling her not to worry.
“There’s probably fresh air getting in through the chimney. If you saw no sign of a break-in —”
“I didn’t, but fresh air can’t light and burn candles. Somebody’s been in there, I’m sure of it. I wasn’t prepared to check the rest of the house to see if anyone was there , or anything had been stolen, without proper light to see by. Not on my own, anyway, so I came home.”
“Did you unlock the back door with your key, and check outside?”
Eleanor shook her head and reached for the cigarette box on the mantelpiece. “No, I never thought to. I think I was too surprised to think straight and, if I’m honest, my mind was still engaged trying to work out what Barbara Lancashire was up to.”
“Oh? What happened there, then?”
Eleanor reported her interview with her erstwhile client. “I can’t say that I’m not relieved that I don’t have to go around asking Barbara’s guests if they stole her pearls. It wasn’t quite the sort of thing I expected to be doing when I started this detecting malarkey, and it may call for a rethink. Either way, I’m sure she hasn’t got her necklace back, just as I’m sure she never sent it for cleaning.”
“Why would she lie about it, though, my lady?”
Eleanor shrugged, arms wide. “I’m blessed if I know.” She lit her cigarette. “I can think of any number of reasons why she might have got rid of the necklace herself, but in that case she wouldn’t have called me in.”
“Unless she wanted you as proof that it had been stolen, rather than pawned, say.”
“Ye gods!” Eleanor stared at her maid, and let out a whistle. “I wish I’d got your devious and clever mind, old girl. That hadn’t occurred to me.”
Tilly sniffed. “You did say that she gambled, didn’t you?”
“Yes, so her sister told me, and Penelope Studley-Gore did, as well. You could be on to something, there. If Barbara had run up gambling debts, then she may well have pawned, or even sold the necklace to pay them.” She tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. “Then what?”
“Does it matter? Now that she's said she doesn’t want you to try and get them back?”
“I suppose not, but I can’t say that I’m happy to have my services dispensed with so soon after receiving the commission. It’s barely more than forty-eight hours. What happened in the meantime, eh? It may not matter — but I still want to know. Besides, it goes against the grain to be used like that, and by Barbara Lancashire of all people.”
Chapter 11
Dismissing Lady Lancashire, Eleanor told Tilly she was going out again. “I shan’t be long. I’m only going to the Post Office on the corner. I need to get a greeting card and post it.”
With this chore completed she walked back home, her mind returning to thoughts of jewel thefts and Barbara Lancashire’s abrupt change of heart. She had almost reached Bellevue Mansions when she heard a thin cry. Further along the pavement stood a newsboy.
“Get your mornin’ paper! Daily Banner!”
Eleanor approached him.
“Mornin’ paper, Miss?” He held out a copy in a grimy hand, black with newsprint.
“What’s your name, young man?”
“Joe, Miss, Joe Minshull. Daily Banner!” He continued to shout his wares.
Eleanor looked down at him. His greasy dark hair flopped into one eye and his head constantly turned, this way and that, as he looked for customers. His newsboy’s bag, stuffed with papers, pulled heavily on one shoulder making him appear crooked.
“I’m Lady Eleanor Bakewell, Joe. Do you regularly come to this part of Piccadilly?”
He craned his head back to gaze up at her. “Coo! A toff, are yer? Yeah, I’m often around this way. Twice a day, usually, three times sometimes if there’s a midday edition. Get your mornin’ paper!”
“Have you ever seen anyone hanging around the front of this building?” She pointed to the wide shallow steps behind them. “Bellevue Mansions.”
A cough shook his thin frame. “Can’t say as I ‘ave, my lady.”
She crouched beside him, so that they were eye to eye. “Would you like to do a job for me, Joe?”
He sniffed and peered at her, the pointed nose in the pale face quivering with suspicion. “Job?” he asked. “What sort of job?” He shivered again in his thin, frayed jacket, his body swaying.
Eleanor put an arm around the narrow waist to steady him. “When did you last eat, Joe?”
He shook his head. “Daily Banner!”
“Never mind that. You’re coming with me.”
“Nah, Miss. Gotta sell me papers.”
Eleanor rose, transferring her grip to his shoulder. “Then I’ll buy the lot of them. Come on.”
She ignored his protests, although she almost had to drag him up the steps. The look on the astonished doorman’s face was nothing compared to the reception she received from Tilly.
“Cor, lumme, my lady. What have you brought home now?”
“A secret weapon, quite possibly, but first he needs feeding up and a hot drink, please.”
Tilly wrinkled her nose. “He looks as if a bath might do him some good as well.”
“All in good time, though I should let him wash his hands and face in the scullery.”
Faced with the indomitable will of his benefactress — or maybe his captor, Joe’s face suggested he wasn’t sure which — he was led off, too weary to complain.
Eleanor took her usual seat by the fireside, smiling quietly to herself at the sounds — Tilly’s chuntering and the boy’s answering yells — emanating from the scullery.
Had she done the right thing in bringing him home? From a humanitarian point of view, undoubtedly — the boy was undernourished, possibly ill, and certainly in need of some care — and, if he was prepared to
take it, she did have a job for young Joe. One that, with any luck, would benefit both of them.
She shrugged. Only time would tell if she was right about that.
When he returned after half an hour his face and hands were cleaner, his hair had been combed and a smile of sheer bliss hovered around his mouth — together with a smear of marmalade, if Eleanor were any judge.
“Thank you, my lady, thank you Miss Tilly. I wish I could have a breakfast like that every day.”
“Come in and sit down, Joe.”
She indicated the chair opposite, noting the way Tilly’s eyebrows rose, but before the maid had a chance to voice her objections, Joe sat, cross-legged, on the carpet before the fire.
“Do you have family?” Eleanor asked him.
“Yeah, me mum and a younger brother, but my mum’s sick and can’t work.”
“Oh? I’m sorry to hear that. Is it anything serious?”
He shrugged. “Influenza, I think.” For a moment he looked worried, then gave another shrug and got the conversation back on track. “You said you was gonna buy all my newspapers, my lady.”
“And I am.” Eleanor picked up her purse. “How much do I owe you?”
Joe’s eyes widened and his fingers and mouth moved rapidly. “There’s twelve copies there at tuppence each, so I makes that two shillin’.”
“So do I.” Eleanor counted out the coins and passed them across. “Now, you have to pay that to the newspapers, but how would you like to earn some money of your own?”
His eyes grew wary. “What would I ’ave to do?”
“Do you always sell your papers around here?”
“Yeah. This is my patch.”
“Does it also cover Berkeley Square?”
“Well, sort of.” He scratched an ear. “Don’t sell much there, though. They’re all Times people around there.”
That made sense. Most occupants of the Square would consider the Daily Banner beneath them, fit only for the servants to read.
“Well, I’d like you to keep your eyes and ears open, both here and at a particular house in Berkeley Square, and report to me what you see.”
Joe twisted his hands in his lap. “Sounds easy enough, but I ain’t doing anything criminal. Don’t hold with that. I ’spects you don’t either, being a lady, an’ all that.”
He sounded hopeful and Eleanor smiled to put him at ease.
“Very much so, young man. In fact, I fight crime, and that’s where this job comes in.”
“Oh, yeah?” His look suggested he didn’t believe a word of it.
“Listen, Joe. Did you know that the man who owned the Daily Banner, Sir David Bristol, was murdered recently?”
“Yeah, I heard about that, all right. They was all talking about it down the delivery office.”
“Well, I found his body at the theatre.”
“Cor!”
“As a result, there are an awful lot of people who keep pestering me, mainly reporters. I’ve already had to send Danny Danvers off with a flea in his ear.”
Joe grinned. “I’d ‘ave liked to seen that. Ol’ Danny’s a real hard nut.”
Perhaps he appeared that way to a boy like Joe. Eleanor had thought the reporter a bit of a softie.
“So, whenever you are down this end of Piccadilly with your papers, will you take note of any men you see hanging around? I don’t expect you to get their names, but a description would be useful.”
The boy rubbed a finger down the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, I reckon I could do that, but ‘ow would I let you know if I seen anybody lurking?”
“Come inside and speak to the doorman. Tell him your name and ask him to ring up to this flat. Tilly or I will then come down and get the details from you. I’ll let the doorman know that you might call and that he is to let me know when you do, so you won’t have to worry about him telling you to clear off.”
Joe held a reddened hand towards the fire. He seemed lost in thought, staring at the flames as they flickered and danced, and said nothing in reply.
“So, will you take the job on, Joe? I’ll pay you a shilling every time you report something — assuming your information proves accurate, that is. Here’s a shilling in advance and to show my good faith.”
Eleanor took another coin from her purse and held it out to him. She had no way to be sure if Joe Minshull would also act in good faith, or whether he would turn up every day with some made up story about suspicious characters lurking around Bellevue Mansions, but if she showed that she trusted him he might be less inclined to try and fool her.
The shilling waited in her hand. To her surprise, he made no move to take it from her.
Eventually, he took his gaze from the fire, glanced at the coin, then raised his eyes to her face.
“Please, my lady, you can keep your money if there’s any chance I could be paid in Miss Tilly’s bacon and egg breakfasts instead.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened. She looked across at her maid, playing chaperone by standing in front of the kitchen door, and saw her eyes widen, too. Then Tilly gave a long slow shake of her head — a shake that Eleanor interpreted not in the negative, but as an expression of despair that a boy could get so hungry as to pass up on a shiny new shilling. The shake was followed by a quick nod.
“All right with me,” Tilly said. “But next time you come, Joe Minshull, you’ll have a bath before you eat.”
Joe’s head shot around to look at her. “Aw, miss.”
“Don’t worry. We do have hot water and you needn’t think I’m going to bath you, so you can preserve your modesty.” She gave a loud sniff.
Eleanor leaned forward. “What do you say, Joe? And I’ll still give you a shilling, too.”
He beamed and started pinching the skin on his forearm. “I ain’t dreaming, am I?”
“No,” said Tilly, before Eleanor could respond. “And you’ll do what you’ve promised to do and behave yourself while you’re here, otherwise you’ll find I’ve got more than one use for a rolling pin.”
Thinking the threat to be real, Joe cowered. “Yes, Miss Tilly.”
He took the shilling from Eleanor and his empty newspaper bag from the floor and Tilly walked downstairs with him and showed him out.
When he had gone, Eleanor wondered again if she had done the right thing. The thought that she might have put the paperboy in danger never crossed her mind, though it was to come back and haunt her in the days ahead.
Chapter 12
Later that morning a knock at the front door disturbed Eleanor as she sat in the small room she used as a study, making notes on the Lancashire case. When the sound of muffled voices reached her, she slipped the sheet of paper into the desk drawer and out of sight.
“Miss Deanna Dacre to see you, my lady.” The maid's face was deadpan. “She’s in the drawing room.”
“Thank you, Tilly. I’ll be right there. Would you make a pot of coffee for our guest, please?”
The actress sat on the sofa. She was dressed completely in black, from her mid calf length skirt to the hat on her head. Her eyes were obscured by the hat's net veil, though the lips beneath were painted scarlet.
Thus she might have looked had she been dressed by a wardrobe mistress in order to play the role of a grieving widow. But Deanna Dacre was not a widow and Eleanor felt a certain disgust that she was expected to view, and presumably treat, her as one.
At Eleanor’s approach, Deanna lifted the veil and offered her hand.
“I hope you don’t mind me calling unannounced like this, my lady. I got your name from Chief Inspector Blount of Scotland Yard. He told me you found...David.”
“I did.” Eleanor indicated that the actress should resume her seat and walked past to her own chair by the fireside.
“And that it was you who called the police?”
Eleanor heard the question in the voice and answered it. “Strictly speaking that was the theatre manager, after I’d informed him of the...tragedy. He called the police, not I.”
Dea
nna fluttered her long dark eyelashes. “Oh, well, it amounts to the same thing.”
Wondering at the real reason behind the visit, Eleanor remained silent. Deanna Dacre would tell her in her own good time. In the meantime, Eleanor smiled in a way that she hoped would inspire confidence and waited.
“Lady Eleanor, I...”
“Yes, Miss Dacre?”
Deanna’s mouth curved briefly. She looked apologetic when she began again. “If it isn’t too painful, or an imposition, would you tell me what happened?”
“There’s nothing to tell, really. I was in the box next door to Sir David, and heard what I thought was a bang, so went to investigate.”
Deanna leaned forward. “And?” she urged.
Was this mere prurience on Deanna’s part? Or did something deeper lie behind the desire to know what Eleanor had seen and heard?
“And, sadly, I found him dead. He had been shot at close range in the back of the head and lay slumped forward over the edge of the box.”
“Oh!” As if by magic, a wisp of cotton appeared out of the actress’s sleeve and went to her mouth, though not, Eleanor noted, close enough to smudge the lipstick. A sob escaped her. “My poor David.”
Luckily, Tilly brought in the coffee at that moment, preventing Eleanor from uttering the scathing retort that had risen to her lips.
“Thank you, Tilly. Leave it here, will you?” She patted the small table at her side, and gave a one-shouldered shrug in answer to the maid’s raised eyebrow. She would talk about it later when their visitor had gone.
“Please help yourself to cream and sugar,” Eleanor said, as she passed a cup of aromatic arabica to her guest. “Perhaps then you’d like to tell me the real reason you are here.”
“Oh.” Deanna took a sip of coffee. “I really did want to know what you saw. I take it there was no one else in Sir David’s box?”
