by M C Beaton
The boy took off his battered hat and stared thoughtfully inside as if consulting the oracle. “How much, guv?”
“One shilling.”
“Garn.”
“Oh, all right. Half a crown.”
“Let’s see the money.”
Harry took out half a crown and handed it to him. The boy crammed his hat on his head. He put the half crown in his jacket pocket. Then he grinned at them.
“Dunno,” he said and ran off as fast as his legs could carry him.
But two other boys had witnessed the transaction. One stepped forward. “We can find old Briggs for you. But it’ll be half a crown each.”
“No tricks,” said Harry. “You don’t get a penny until you take us to him.”
The boys set off and Harry and Becket followed. They walked through one miserable street after another. The weather had turned warm and humid. The air was redolent with all the smells of dirt and poverty.
“We must set up a charitable trust for these sort of people now that we are in funds,” said Harry. All the money he had earned he had invested shrewdly.
“If I may be so bold, sir,” said Becket crossly, “charity begins at home.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning me and Daisy would like that little apartment.”
“You are quite a nag, Becket. I’ll see to it.”
“Up there,” said one of the boys, coming to a halt. He pointed up at a tenement.
“No money until I know he’s there. Which floor?”
“Up the top.”
“Then follow us.”
Harry climbed the stairs to the top of the ramshackle building. “That door,” said the other boy, pointing.
Harry knocked. He heard the sound of slow, shuffling footsteps and then the door opened.
A stooped, grey-haired man opened the door. “Mr George Briggs?” asked Harry.
“Yes, who wants ter know?”
Harry gave a crown to the boys and said, “Run along with you.”
Then he faced George Briggs. “May we come in?”
“You’re not from the police?”
“No.”
“Come in, then.”
The flat consisted of one room with a bed set into a recess. Briggs sank into a battered armchair. “What’s this about?”
“Do you remember Betty Biles?”
“Course I do. Prettiest thing to ever grow out o’ this muck heap.”
“You and your wife witnessed a will she wrote.”
“I’d forgot about that. She come round here with her brother and she was black and blue. Old Biles had taken ‘is belt to her cos she wouldn’t marry Tim Jones. She said she was running away and she was going to be rich and she wanted to make sure anything she got would go to the brother, Jeffrey.”
Harry told him the story of Dolores’s murder. “Poor soul,” said Briggs. “I ‘eard about that. Fancy her brother doing it! They were that close.”
“Jeffrey has hanged himself,” said Harry. “If there is a chance he did not do the murder, who would?”
“Blessed if I know. The only nasty piece o’ work in that girl’s life was her father.”
“What about this Tim Jones?”
“Oh, him. He got a haberdashery down the Mile End Road. But I heard he’d sold it and moved uptown.”
“You don’t know where?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
“What about your wife? Would she know?”
“My Sarah’s been dead this past five years. But you could try round Breem Lane, where he used to live. Maybe someone there would know.”
♦
The fat woman in Breem Lane shouted down to Harry and Becket, “Everyone wants to find Jones today. There was two young ladies asking. Come in a cab.”
“What were they like?” asked Harry.
“There was a cheeky Cockney one and the other was pretty but didn’t say a word. I told ‘em Jones had moved up to Notting Hill – Chepstow Mansions.”
“That must be Rose and Daisy,” said Harry. “We’ll need to hurry.” He called back up to the woman, “When was this?”
“Must ha’ been a couple o’ hours ago.”
“Let’s go,” said Harry urgently. “They could be in danger.”
∨ Our Lady of Pain ∧
Ten
Come away; poverty’s catching
– Aphra Behn
Rose and Daisy located Chepstow Mansions. It was new building of redbrick off the Portobello Road.
“He must have done well out of the sale of his shop to move all the way here,” said Rose.
Inside the hall of the flats, a porter was on duty. Rose asked for Mr Jones. “He won’t be in at the moment, ladies,” said the porter. “You’ll find him at his shop. You can’t miss it. It’s right on the cross.”
They paid off the cabbie and walked up to the cross and there it was: Jones Haberdashery, a double-fronted shop.
“Looks prosperous,” said Rose. “Let’s go in.”
“I’m hungry,” complained Daisy.
“We’ll eat as soon as we’ve seen him.”
Rose pushed open the door of the shop and Daisy followed her in. A stout women in a black dress approached them. “We are just about to close.”
“We’ve come to see Mr Jones. Here is my card.”
The woman took Rose’s card and retreated into the back shop. She returned after a few moments, looking flustered. “I am afraid Mr Jones has left for the night.”
“I’m sure he’s in there,” said Rose when they walked outside.
“You went the wrong way about it. We should have asked about ribbons or something.”
“If he’s an innocent man, the sight of my name wouldn’t frighten him. Oh, look, there’s a tea room across the road. We can have something to eat and drink, and watch and see if he leaves.”
They ordered tea and buttered muffins and sat at a table in the bay of the window. A boy came out and started to put shutters up over the windows. After some time, the woman who had spoken to them left with two other women.
They waited and waited. “I wonder if there’s a back door,” said Rose uneasily.
“Come on,” said Daisy. “We’d better go and look. Can’t sit here all night.”
A narrow lane ran up the side of the shop. This led to another lane along the back of the shops.
“He must have left from the back,” sighed Rose. “Let’s go back to Chepstow Mansions and try him there.”
But the first thing they saw as they approached the block of flats was Harry’s car parked outside.
“They’ve beaten us to it,” mourned Daisy. “We may as well wait for them and get them to drive us home.”
They both leaned against the car.
A policeman approached them and eyed them up and down. “Now, now,” he said. “Go about your business. This is a decent neighbourhood.”
“This motor belongs to Captain Cathcart,” said Rose in cut-glass tones. “I am Lady Rose Summer and we are waiting for him. You go about your business, constable.”
“Not my fault,” grumbled the policeman. “The porter in there, he phones and says there’s a couple of prostitutes outside.”
“Just go away,” Rose was saying furiously when Harry and Becket joined them.
“This officer has accused us of being prostitutes,” said Rose.
Harry turned hard black eyes on the constable. “I’m right sorry, sir,” he said. “But it was that porter what told me.”
“Just go about your duties,” said Harry. The policeman touched his helmet and walked off.
“Now,” said Harry, “what are you doing here?”
“Looking for Mr Jones. We tried to talk to him at his shop but he escaped by the back way.”
“Well, I tried as well, but he had warned the porter not to admit anyone. Let’s get out of here. We need to talk. You are putting yourself at risk.”
♦
They went to the tea room opposite the haberdashery. Rose t
old Harry all they had found out. She said finally, “Are you sure that Jeffrey Biles was not our murderer?”
“I am not sure at all. He did not receive any visitors.”
“Not even a lawyer?”
“He did not ask for one. But a lawyer would have been appointed to him before his trial.”
“Then it must have been one of the guards at the prison,” said Daisy.
Becket gave his wife an indulgent smile. “What on earth would a guard have to gain by killing him?”
“Money,” said Daisy. “Maybe someone paid him to shut Jeffrey up.”
“That sounds ridiculous,” said Becket.
“Wait a minute,” said Harry. “I will go to Kerridge tomorrow and ask if I can interview the guard. We must try everything. Perhaps Jones became so obsessed with Dolores and was furious when he found out she had become a tart that something in him snapped. I mean, why does he refuse to see us? Why did he leave by the back door of his shop rather than be confronted by Rose and Daisy?”
“I would like to come with you,” said Rose.
“Don’t you think it will be difficult to escape?” asked Harry. “Your parents must be wondering where you are.”
“I told them I was going down to the East End to do charity work.”
“Nonetheless, there is no need for all of us to turn up at the prison. It would occasion too much comment and a prison is no place for a lady.”
“Oh, I wish I were a man,” complained Rose.
Harry smiled at her. “I am so glad you are not. Now, I had better take you home.”
♦
Outside the earl’s town house, Harry helped Rose down from the car. He bent and kissed her hand. “When all this is over,” he said, “we will find a way to get married.”
“We may have to elope,” said Rose.
“I am sure I will find a way to persuade your parents. I know they have told me I am not to see you, so find out some social engagement you are going to, telephone my office and I will try to meet you there.”
Rose felt that wings were bearing her into the house. I really do love him, she thought, and then her face fell as Brum informed her in severe tones that Lady Polly was asking for her.
Rose went to her rooms first to change the drab clothes she had chosen to wear while detecting. She rang for Hunter and was dressed in a tea gown.
“There you are!” exclaimed Lady Polly. “Brum tells me that you arrived home in Captain Cathcart’s car. We told you to have nothing to do with that man.”
“He happened to be in the East End at the same time,” said Rose, “and I was glad of an escort home.”
“Did you go on your own?”
“No, Mrs Becket accompanied me.”
“That was not enough. Two of the footmen should have been with you. Now I want you to look your best tomorrow night. We are going to Mrs Blenkinsop’s musical evening and Lord Cherm’s son, Roger, is going to be there. He has been travelling abroad, which is why he has not been seen at the Season before. He is eminently eligible.”
The telephone was in Matthew’s office. Rose stood on the first landing, watching the office door in the hall until she saw Matthew come out. He put on his hat and coat and left.
Rose darted down the stairs and telephoned Harry. “I’ll look through my invitations,” he said. “If I haven’t got one to Mrs Blenkinsop’s, I will manage to get invited somehow. Be careful. No more detecting.”
♦
The next day, Rose was informed that her father had gone to his club and that her mother was lying down with a headache, although Hunter, the lady’s maid, confided that the ‘headache’ was actually a cream treatment to whiten the skin and remove any tan, and was supposed to take all day.
Rose decided to call on Daisy. Daisy greeted her with relief and delight. “I thought I was going to be stuck here all day. I told the captain I wanted to take up my duties as detective and he said I had to stay at home because of the baby. Men! What do you have in mind?”
“I want to see this Mr Jones. I want to see what he looks like. I want to see if I can waylay him and speak to him.”
“Do you think he’s dangerous?”
“What can he do? With Harry trying to see him, he must know he is under suspicion and he won’t make any rash moves.”
“How did you get out?”
“Mama is enduring some treatment to bleach her tan and Father is at his club. We’ll take the cab I’ve got waiting outside.”
It took quite a long time to reach Notting Hill. Rain had begun to fall and the roads were a morass of mud and horse droppings. Carters, bus drivers, tram drivers, cab drivers and the few motor chauffeurs had no protection against the rain. They sat in the open, wearing oilskin hats and capes, with the rain pouring off them. Noise rose up around Rose and Daisy. A motor bus honked and banged, encouraged by shouts of “Whip behind, guv’nor!”
The buses were of all colours: red, blue, yellow, white, green, purple, orange and chocolate. Like the old stagecoaches, they all had names, such as The Favourite, The Atlas, The Royal Blue, The Royal Oak and The Wellington.
Hawkers still hawked their wares, but they seemed angry about their goods, whereas their grandfathers had been pleased. Instead of the old melodious chants, they bawled and yelled.
As they arrived at Notting Hill, the rain stopped and a watery sunlight gilded the muddy pavements. Rose paid the cabbie and they both stood, irresolute.
“We’ll sit in the tea room,” said Daisy. “Look, it’s quite empty. We can get a table by the window and observe the haberdashery.”
They ordered tea and biscuits and tried to watch the shop but the sun was making steam rise from the pavement and the window was misted up. Rose kept rubbing a viewing circle with her handkerchief.
“Are you watching that shop?” asked the waitress.
Rose swung round. “No, I like to look at the people passing by.”
“‘Cos Mrs Jones over there wondered what you was up to.”
With a bob of her head, the waitress indicated a woman sitting in the far corner.
“I shall go and put her mind at rest,” said Rose. “Come, Daisy.”
They approached the haberdasher’s wife. Rose judged her to be in her late twenties. She was wearing a long grey coat unseasonably trimmed with fur. A large grey hat was perched on top of her piled-up blonde hair. Her eyes were small and looked at them warily.
“I am Lady Rose Summer,” said Rose. She quickly noticed her name meant nothing to Mrs Jones. “We are sorry we upset you. My companion, Miss Levine. May we join you? We do not know this area.”
“Please,” said Mrs Jones, looking flustered and delighted at the same time. She would tell her friends that an aristocratic and beautiful young lady had joined her for tea.
Rose signalled to the waitress to bring their tea things over. She smiled charmingly at Mrs Jones. “Have you lived in Notting Hill for long?”
“Only for a few years,” she said shyly. She spoke in a sort of strangled voice as if she was trying to kill any trace of a Cockney accent.
“The waitress said your husband is the haberdasher.”
“Yes. I thought you were watching the shop.”
Rose smiled. “Now why should that bother you?”
“It’s my husband. He’s ever such a suspicious man. It’s all come on him lately. He jumps at shadows.”
“Perhaps too much work?” suggested Rose.
“It shouldn’t be. He’s got plenty of staff.”
“I was supposed to meet my fiancé for lunch,” sighed Rose. “But he is always so busy. He is a private detective. My parents think that is a terribly common thing to be. He does have some fascinating cases, however. He is looking into the death of Dolores Duval.”
“I read about that in the newspapers,” said Mrs Jones. “But they’ve got someone for it.”
“Yes, her brother, Jeffrey Biles. But he hanged himself. Dolores was originally Betty Biles from Whitechapel.”
Mrs Jon
es suddenly bent her head. Rose realized with a jolt of shock that she was crying.
“My dear Mrs Jones. I do not want to upset you.”
She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. Then she raised her head. “It’s my husband, Mr Jones. He used to talk about her the whole time. Then when he found out she’d become no better than she should be, he got bitter about it.”
“He did not have any contact with Jeffrey Biles, did he?” asked Rose.
Mrs Jones jumped to her feet, knocking her teacup over. She ran for the door.
The waitress had been watching them avidly and she now hurried over to clean the spilled tea from the table.
“Now what do we do?” asked Daisy.
“The steam has cleared from the windows. We’ll watch the shop again. I want to see what kind of man he is.”
They moved back to their original seat.
Rose looked at her fob watch. “It is nearly lunch-time. Look, that must be our Mr Jones.”
A tall thin man had emerged from the shop. He was holding Mrs Jones tightly by the arm. She was crying as he hustled her off down the street.
“As she had read about the case in the newspapers, it’s a wonder she did not recognize my name,” said Rose. “What did you make of him?”
“He’s a lot older than his wife,” said Daisy. “But he’s got a sort of weak face. I can’t imagine him murdering anyone.”
“I wonder how Harry is getting on,” said Rose, “because I can’t really think of what we can do here now.”
♦
Armed with a letter from Kerridge, Harry went to Pentonville Prison to interview the guard who had been on duty at the estimated time of Jeffrey’s suicide.
He was told that the guard, Joseph Carver, had not come in for work. Harry saw the governor and got Carver’s address.
“Whitechapel,” he said to Becket when he came out of the prison. “All roads lead to Whitechapel. Our guard did not show up for work. His address is 5 Gerald Street.”
London had been for a long time the home of the persecuted and exiled. Whitechapel was largely the refuge of European Jews. They brought a bustling energy and life to the area, but there were still pockets where the English residents staved in filth and dirt, ground down by lives of poverty. Gerald Street was a narrow cavern flanked on both sides by dingy tenements.
