Tilly groaned, thinking of the woman’s reaction. When Tilly had explained the reason she needed the cushion, the woman had completely flown off the handle, saying that young women these days mollycoddled themselves too much. Then she had gone on about taking a day off because of the fog and then she had accused Tilly of being responsible for files going missing, as well as other items from the office. Tilly had denied the charge and Mr Holmes had come out of his domain and told Miss Langton to keep her voice down and that it was common sense that had kept himself and Miss Moran at home during the foggy weather. After that Miss Langton had not spoken to Tilly at all but stormed out of the office at lunchtime and not returned for several hours. No doubt she had believed because Mr Holmes had business elsewhere she could get away with absenting herself. Tilly had coped alone, not that she had minded doing so because she had worked in the office long enough to know Miss Langton’s job as well as her own. She had managed to deal with the agents and clients’ business and maybe that had caused Miss Langton to be even more bad-tempered when one had praised Tilly’s capability to do her job. There had been several nasty moments and Tilly was concerned that the woman would do her best to get rid of her in the not too distant future.
‘Do I need to know, Wendy?’ she murmured, removing a glove.
‘It could give you ideas for your novel,’ said Wendy, and read out, ‘During the disastrous bad weather the Bishop of Liverpool fell when a tram was brought to a sudden halt in the fog.’
‘I knew about that,’ said Tilly, trying to be patient. ‘It happened outside St Margaret’s Church. I heard some women talking about it in the post office, although, why you think I should want to put the Bishop of Liverpool in my novel, I don’t know.’
Wendy pulled a face. ‘It wasn’t so much the bishop as the things that can happen in the fog. There was a death. A woman drowned in the Leeds-Liverpool Canal. It’s believed that she mustn’t have been able to see where she was going and fell into the water.’
‘Poor woman,’ said Tilly, interested despite wanting to get upstairs and relax. ‘Has she been identified?’
‘Has who been identified?’ asked Mr Simpson, entering the shop and placing his library book on the counter. ‘Good evening, Miss Moran. I haven’t seen you for a while,’ he said, gazing into her pretty face, flushed by the wind.
‘No, Mr Simpson. Somehow we keep missing each other,’ she said, smiling. ‘I hope you’re well.’
‘Better for seeing you,’ he said. ‘Although you appear to have lost weight. I hope you’re in good health?’
‘I’m fine. It’s all the walking I do,’ said Tilly.
Wendy cleared her throat. ‘There’s a couple of things you might be interested in in the newspapers today, Tilly,’ she said. ‘The fashion page for instance. You might like to hear what Jacqueline says about what colours redheads like you should wear.’
‘I know I shouldn’t wear red,’ said Tilly, deciding to humour her.
‘According to our expert that’s a mistake,’ informed Wendy. ‘She says that certain shades of red can be worn with conviction.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Whatever that means. Do you know what a tailleur is?’
‘It sounds French,’ said Mr Simpson.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Tilly. ‘I think it’s a kind of jacket.’
‘You could be right,’ said Mr Simpson.
‘It says a tailleur of red-brown to wear over a vest of ochre organdie,’ said Wendy loudly. ‘So it sounds like a jacket. It says it can be worn with a toque of waxed ribbon in a red-gold shade to match your hair. You need to wear bronze shoes and silk stockings, as well,’ she added.
Tilly laughed. ‘Does Jacqueline say how much this is all going to cost?’
Wendy shook her head. ‘A few bob I should imagine.’
‘Probably pounds and pounds. Now if my sister read that description she could make the whole lot for almost next to nothing,’ said Tilly.
‘I should imagine you’d look lovely in such an outfit, Miss Moran,’ said Mr Simpson.
The colour in Tilly’s cheeks deepened. ‘You’ve a silver tongue, Mr Simpson. I couldn’t afford it anyway.’
Wendy frowned and quickly turned a page. ‘Well, what about this, Tilly? There’s an advertisement about a short story competition in the Red Letter. The prize is publication and five shillings.’
‘Now that is interesting,’ said Tilly excitedly. ‘I suppose the entry form will be in this week’s Red Letter?’
Wendy nodded.
‘Right! Give me a copy,’ said Tilly, opening her handbag and taking out thrupence. At the moment she didn’t have a clue what to write but was hoping inspiration would strike once she sat down at her typewriter.
Wendy handed the magazine to Tilly, who asked them to excuse her and she went into the back of shop. She said a quick hello to those present and hurried upstairs. An idea popped into her head and by the time she had changed out of her dark suit into a skirt, jumper and cardigan, her idea had developed further.
She placed a sheet of paper in her typewriter and gazed at it for moment before typing ‘The Lady in Red’. Having never been to Paris she was going to have to use her imagination. She had read about it and reckoned a mention of the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame Cathedral, the Left Bank and the River Seine glistening in the moonlight would give the reader a flavour of the city. But should her story be purely a romantic tale or should her lady in red be a woman of mystery? She thought of the Russian actress, Nazimona. Perhaps it should be about an aristocratic lady escaping the Bolsheviks and meeting a British soldier who was a spy? There was a lot of interest in events in Russia at the moment and the Western allies, horrified by the murder of the Russian Imperial family, had sent armed forces to help the White Russians.
Tilly began to type, her imagination taking flight, and for the next hour or more she was in a different world. Only to have to re-enter the real one when Peter banged on her bedroom door and shouted, ‘Supper’s ready, Tilly!’ She groaned because she needed to polish the story and retype it.
She ate her meal without really noticing what she was eating but remembered to thank her landlady before returning to her room. This time she retyped her story with no typing errors and made a carbon copy. Then she put the top sheets in an envelope with the entry form and a stamped addressed envelope. She had a good feeling about her effort and planned on posting it the following morning on her way to work.
To Tilly’s surprise, Miss Langton made no mention of the events of yesterday, and to the girl’s ever greater surprise, Mr Simpson entered the office halfway through the morning.
‘Mr Simpson! What are you doing here?’ she asked.
His face lit up. ‘Miss Moran, how nice to see you. I’m here to see the boss.’
‘Is he expecting you? Is it urgent?’ asked Tilly. ‘Miss Langton is in with him right now. Do you want me to let him know you’re here or are you prepared to wait until she comes out?’
‘I can wait.’
Tilly offered him a seat. He sat down whilst she continued with her filing. She was conscious that he was watching her. ‘So what do you think of this woman who fell in the Leeds-Liverpool Canal, Miss Moran?’ he asked.
She glanced at him. ‘What should I think, Mr Simpson? I don’t know the woman.’
‘She was insured by this company.’
‘I didn’t know that but most likely Mr Holmes and Miss Langton will have heard of her.’
‘No doubt. She was a pawnbroker.’
‘Was she?’ said Tilly.
Mr Simpson nodded. ‘I still have contacts in the police force and it appears that she was also known to the police.’
Tilly stared at him. ‘You say that as if—’
‘They suspected her of being a fence in receipt of stolen property.’
‘Gosh!’ Tilly felt a thrill of excitement. ‘I didn’t realise you were involved with such goings on.’
He smiled. ‘Perhaps that’s why you didn’t accept my offer to help you wi
th your research, Miss Moran?’
‘What offer?’
‘My offer to supply you with useful information about criminals and police procedure for your novel,’ he said. ‘Perhaps Wendy forgot to mention it to you.’
‘She did. No doubt she has a lot on her mind,’ said Tilly, deciding to seize the opportunity to gain information from him whilst neither Wendy nor Miss Langton was present to interrupt them. ‘Do the police suspect foul play? Is it possible that there was a falling out amongst thieves and she was pushed into the canal on purpose?’
Mr Simpson stood up and began to prowl about the office. ‘You have plenty of imagination. As it is nothing can be proved but the police are very interested to see who takes over her business. Her solicitor says she has no close family, only a nephew in America.’
‘So it’s doubtful he could have murdered her.’
Mr Simpson nodded and stared at a notice on the wall. ‘It’s a puzzle to the police what she was doing wandering along the canal at that time of evening in the fog.’
‘How close are we to the Leeds-Liverpool canal?’ asked Tilly.
He smiled. ‘A good way away. It travels from the docks, cuts through Kirkdale, Bootle and on through Litherland, Maghull and cross country through Lancashire to Leeds in Yorkshire.’
‘And her shop is where?’
‘Scotland Road, which is near enough to the canal for her to walk there.’
‘So will it be this distant relative who will arrange her funeral? A bit difficult if he’s living in America.’
‘The funeral can go ahead without him because it would take time for him to get here,’ said Mr Simpson. ‘The solicitor is seeing to the arrangements.’
‘I see.’
At that moment the door into Mr Holmes’s inner sanctum opened and Miss Langton came out. She started when she saw Mr Simpson there. ‘What are you doing here? Have you been waiting long?’
‘Only a few minutes,’ said Mr Simpson, ‘and Miss Moran has looked after me fine.’ He gave Tilly a smiling glance and then said, ‘I’ll go in. See you again, Miss Moran.’ He tipped his hat and after giving a knock on Mr Holmes’s door, opened it and went inside.
‘Well!’ exclaimed Miss Langton.
Tilly avoided her eyes and continued with her filing, hoping the woman was not going to find fault with her again or she could see herself looking for another job.
Chapter Eleven
‘Good evening, girls,’ said Mr Simpson, placing a book on the counter. ‘It’s blinking cold out there.’
‘Cold enough for snow?’ asked Wendy. ‘What do you think, Mr Simpson, will it snow for Christmas this year?’
‘The weather could change again by then.’
‘So what will you be doing for Christmas, Mr Simpson?’ asked Tilly, wondering why she had not seen him at the insurance office since his mention of the pawnbroker’s death.
He smiled at her. ‘We Scots don’t celebrate Christmas to the same extent as you do south of the border, Miss Moran. The New Year is more important. We call it Hogmanay.’
‘I know that,’ said Tilly, resting against the counter and taking a foot out of the shoe her father had repaired and wriggling her cold toes. ‘I’m half-Scottish. My dad was born in Scotland.’
‘So was I, apparently. My father died in India and then my mother passed away when I was only five years old. Her sister and husband took in me and my sister. They’re both gone now and their son was killed in the war.’
‘No doubt you’ll be spending Hogmanay with your sister?’ asked Wendy.
He shook his head. ‘She’s going up to Scotland to stay with a cousin for a week. She hasn’t been well and she’s lost her job. I thought the break would do her good. Most likely I’ll just have a wee dram with some friends.’
‘You’re always welcome to come here for Christmas or Hogmanay, Mr Simpson,’ said Wendy earnestly. ‘You could first foot for us.’
He smiled. ‘That’s very generous of you but hadn’t you better ask your mother first?’
‘And if I do and she says yes?’ she asked.
‘Then maybe I’ll pop by,’ he replied, glancing at Tilly.
She took the opportunity to ask him if he had heard anything else about the pawnbroker who had fallen in the canal and whether the solicitor had heard from the nephew in America.
‘Seems he never came back from the war and there are no other relatives as far as we know,’ said Mr Simpson, strolling over to the bookshelves and scanning the titles there. He took out a book and brought it over to the counter. ‘Have you read this, Miss Moran?’ he asked. ‘The Thirty-Nine Steps? It’s a good yarn.’
‘Yes, I have, it’s a great adventure.’
‘I often read old favourites,’ he said, handing it to Wendy. ‘And what will you be doing for Christmas and New Year, Miss Moran?’
‘I hope to visit my family in Chester,’ said Tilly. ‘Although if it snows, I can’t see me going anywhere.’ She paused. ‘So what will happen about the pawnbroker’s shop and possessions?’
‘A notice will be put in several newspapers asking anyone related to her to get in touch with the solicitor, where they might learn something to their advantage,’ he explained.
‘I wonder if anyone will come forward,’ mused Tilly.
‘Only time will tell,’ said the detective.
She nodded. ‘I’d best go and change. I’ll see you again, Mr Simpson.’
‘I look forward to that, Miss Moran.’
She nodded, a slight smile on her face as she left the shop.
During the next few days there was a fall of snow but it did not last long and public transport continued to operate despite the freezing cold weather. The newspapers forecast a bleak Christmas what with frozen pipes and a million unemployed, and in the Rhondda Valley the coal miners had suddenly downed tools again, which meant coal shortages and electricity cuts.
For Tilly there was at least some good news in that she won the Red Letter short story competition and received her five shilling prize in time for the festive season. Unfortunately, due to work commitments, she did not get the chance to visit her family over the Christmas season but determined to visit them before the New Year.
Robbie Bennett dropped by with presents for the whole family, including a couple for Tilly, one of which was a matching set of scarf, hat and gloves, knitted by Hanny and given to Joy. He and Eudora gave her a book. She was touched by their generosity and thanked him, apologising that she didn’t have anything for them.
‘We didn’t give to receive, Tilly,’ he said, patting her shoulder. ‘I’ve also some news for you. Freddie telephoned to say that Clara had given birth to a baby boy two days ago.’
Tilly had almost forgotten that Clara was having a baby because she had been so taken up with her own life. ‘Are they both well? What are they going to call him?’
‘Nicholas. After St Nicholas. You know, Father Christmas.’
‘I know,’ said Tilly, smiling and thinking he looked a little like Father Christmas himself with his mop of pure white hair.
‘And mother and son are both fine,’ he added. ‘They asked Joy to let you know and Eudora also told me that I’m to tell you that we’re throwing a party on New Year’s Eve and you’re all invited.’ He beamed at them.
Minnie’s face lit up. ‘They’re you are, Mam. We’ve been invited to a New Year’s party, which means none of us will have to cook that evening.’
‘But what about Mr Simpson?’ asked Wendy, looking dismayed. ‘I said he could first foot for us.’
‘We’ll just have to tell Mr Simpson we’re going to be out,’ said her mother. ‘I’m not going to miss out on free food and drink.’
‘Who’s Mr Simpson?’ asked Robbie, glancing around the circle of faces.
‘He’s a private detective,’ said Wendy. ‘He comes into the shop most days and has hardly anyone in the way of family.’
‘Bring him along then,’ said Robbie jovially. ‘The more the merrier.’
Wendy exchanged looks with her mother. ‘Is that all right with you, Mam?’
‘I don’t see the harm in it,’ said Rita. Having downed a couple of glasses of the sherry her brother had brought her, she was in a fairly good mood. ‘After all, it is the season for good will towards all men.’
‘Tell him to be prepared to do a turn,’ warned Robbie.
‘Although, on second thoughts best keep quiet about that as we definitely need more men and don’t want to put him off!’ He chuckled.
‘He could first foot for you,’ said Wendy casually. ‘After all he is dark and handsome.’
Robbie gave his niece a keen look. ‘If you say so, love. We want everything to go well this year.’
Don’t we all? Tilly thought. She looked forward to the party next Friday, wanting to have some fun, and she also saw it as an opportunity to see her father. She planned returning to Newsham Drive with Robbie Bennett today, taking the present she had made for Mal. She had bought some wool out of her winnings and knitted him a pair of socks. Sometime during the week she would visit Chester straight from work and stay a couple of hours and then get the last train back to Liverpool. She would need to buy a present for the baby, having already bought some inexpensive little gifts for her nieces and nephews but nothing for the adults. She had sent Christmas cards but had not received one from Alice and Seb and hoped that was only because it had been lost in the post. She did not want to believe that she was out of favour with her sister again. Should she mention to her father that she planned on visiting Alice and the children? Tilly decided to see what kind of mood he was in. What if he decided he’d go with her? What would she say then?
* * *
‘Do you think Tilly will make the effort to come and see the new baby before he’s out of nappies?’ said Alice, putting down the Weekly News and getting to her feet.
It was the Wednesday evening after Christmas. She had hoped her sister might have visited over the Christmas holiday despite the difficulties of travelling but Tilly had not done so and Alice was feeling more than annoyed. She had been just as hurt when Tilly had not made the effort to see Georgie during his illness.
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