by M C Beaton
“I am only agreeing because at the moment I am not allowed out of the house.”
Harry smiled. “Let me escort you out to the motor.”
Harry waited until Becket had returned. “Do not take off your coat, Becket. We are going to Scotland Yard. How is Phil progressing with the camera work?”
“He is excellent and knows how to develop and print negatives.”
“Good. Tell him to get that new Kodak I bought him, film, and magnesium for the flash. I’ll need him tonight. I will also need to furnish you with a pistol, Becket. You do not mind threatening anyone with a pistol, do you?”
“Certainly not, sir.”
“So here’s what we will do…”
♦
Harry hoped his guess was correct – that Berrow and Banks would wait outside that brothel in the hope of getting hold of Jonathan. But to make sure, he, Becket, and Phil followed the pair from The Club, then hid at the end of Verney Street and watched. Berrow and Banks looked around furtively and went into the brothel. They came out a few minutes later and stood waiting.
“Jonathan must have been due on duty about now,” whispered Harry. “Becket and Phil, go now. You have your instructions.”
Becket walked forward to where Berrow and Cyril were standing. Harry had altered his manservant’s appearance. Becket now sported a heavy moustache and mutton-chop whiskers.
He held the gun on the pair. Then he raised it and fired a shot neatly through the top of Berrow’s silk hat and then levelled the pistol on them again.
The brothel door slammed shut and the lights went out. A shot in Verney Street meant trouble, and trouble meant the police. No one wanted to be around when the police arrived. Harry at the end of the street saw a possible customer turn and run off.
“What do you want?” squeaked Cyril. “Our money?”
“I want you to kiss your friend on the mouth.”
“Bugger you,” hissed Berrow.
Becket clicked back the hammer on the pistol. “Oh, do what the maniac says,” howled Cyril, “or he’ll kill us.”
He grasped Berrow by the shoulders and pressed his mouth to his. Becket melted into the shadows as the magnesium flare went off.
Neither man saw the flash, both having their eyes tight shut. When Cyril released Berrow, he looked wildly around. There was no sign of anyone. Both men took out their silk handkerchiefs and wiped their mouths.
“Disgusting!” raged Berrow. “Let’s get out of here. Scotland Yard shall hear of this.” He set off down the street.
“Hold on,” said Cyril. “We can’t tell the police.”
“Why not? We were forced to kiss each other by some maniac with a pistol.”
“The police will ask where it took place. If we say Verney Street, they’ll think we’re a pair of you-know-whats. And I told you that someone opened my safe and stole that negative and photograph.”
Berrow stopped short. “What are we to do?”
“We can’t do anything.”
The next morning, both Cyril and Berrow received envelopes delivered by hand. In each envelope was a large photograph of them kissing each other. The brothel behind them was also in the picture. Each received the same letter. “If you go near Lady Rose Summer again or interfere in her life, go near her home, or threaten her in any way, this photograph goes to the police and the newspapers.”
Cyril went straight round to Berrow’s town house.
“You got one too! What are we to do?”
“I’m sure this is the work of that counter-jumper, Cathcart,” growled Berrow. “Let’s keep clear of Lady Rose while we think of a way to get back at him.”
The earl was having a late breakfast with his wife when he was told that Captain Cathcart had called.
“Send him in,” he ordered, and when Harry arrived, “have some breakfast. Pull up a pew.”
“Just coffee, please,” said Harry. A cup of coffee was given to him by a footman.
“Have you any news?”
“Not before the servants,” said Harry.
“You lot, get out of here,” ordered the earl. “And no listening at the door, either.” He turned to his wife. “You’d better go, too, my dear. Unsavoury stuff.”
“Before you go, Lady Polly, and before I give my report, I wish to inform you that I would consider it a great honour to renew my engagement to your daughter.”
“Not that again,” said the earl.
“I think you will find that your daughter is not indifferent to my suit. Lady Rose needs someone to protect her from danger.”
“You drag her into danger!”
“I had nothing to do with her finding that body in Hyde Park.”
“True. Oh, well, after your behaviour the last time you were engaged to her, she won’t want anything to do with you. Try if you like. Now, to business. My dear?”
When Lady Polly had left the room, Harry described how Berrow and Cyril had been forced to kiss each other. “They know that should they even go near Lady Rose again, the photograph will be sent to the police and to the newspapers.”
The earl began to laugh. Rose had seen Harry arrive. She could hear her father’s roars of laughter and wondered if it could be because Harry had asked for her hand in marriage once more.
“By Jove,” said the earl, “that’s brilliant. But why don’t the police shut that den of iniquity down?”
“I am afraid high-ranking people use it.”
“Demme, this town’s a sewer, a veritable sewer. Ghastly fellows preferring it up the tradesmen’s entrance. Thanks anyway. I suppose you’d better see Rose, but mark my words, you’re in for a rough rejection.”
The earl and countess were bemused when they were asked to come to the drawing-room to find their daughter wearing a sparkling engagement ring and smiling up at the captain.
“Your daughter has done me the great honour of accepting my hand in marriage,” said Harry.
“I think you’re both mad,” roared the earl and stormed from the room. Lady Polly remained. “I suppose Mr. Jarvis will have to cancel your engagement now to Sir Peter and then announce this engagement. Really, Rose, do try in future to be more conventional. Brum said he saw you sneaking back into the house when I had given you strict instructions not to leave it. You may take your leave, Captain Cathcart. Mr. Jarvis will let you know of Rose’s social engagements.”
Harry kissed Rose on her cheek. “Friends again?” he whispered.
“Friends,” echoed Rose softly.
To Rose’s relief, her mother made no protest at her plan to help the poor of East London by serving in the soup kitchen at St. Matthew’s in Whitechapel. Charity was fashionable provided one went armoured with the usual protection of footman and lady’s maid.
Rose decided to take Miss Friendly with her, Daisy having suddenly and vehemently refused to go.
Daisy said she didn’t want to run into old acquaintances. It wasn’t because she had become too grand, it was because they’d make a mock of her while demanding money at the same time.
So Rose set off the following morning, Matthew having arranged her visit with the vicar.
The lady running the soup kitchen was a Mrs. Harrison, whom Rose remembered from her suffragette meetings. She was a thickset middle-class woman with a no-nonsense air.
She supplied Rose and Miss Friendly with long aprons to protect their clothes and told them to supply their own next time.
Rose had not been prepared for the rank smell of so many diseased and unwashed bodies. But she smiled and ladled soup into bowls while Miss Friendly handed out chunks of bread.
Her beauty was appreciated by the poor. She smiled at each and said a few words of comfort. One old Cockney was particularly grateful. “The Good Lord sent you, missus,” he said. “I saw the light in prison, I did. Chaplain says God would take care of me. You is an instrument of the Lord.”
He moved on. Rose’s feet began to ache. “How long do we have to stay here?” she whispered to Miss Friendly.
/> “Another hour,” murmured Miss Friendly. “So many hungry people.”
At last it was over. Rose felt a glow of achievement as she was driven off. She had promised to return on the following day.
Her scalp became increasingly itchy as the day wore on. She rang for her lady’s maid. “Turner, would you see if I have a rash on my scalp?”
Turner took the bone pins and pads out of Rose’s elaborate hair-style and brushed out her long hair.
“My lady, you have lice!”
“Lice!”
“Head lice. I will fetch a tooth comb and disinfectant.”
Rose spent an agonizing hour bent over a sheet of white paper while Turner combed out the lice with a toothcomb soaked in disinfectant. Then her hair was washed several times.
Rose remembered that Mrs. Harrison’s hair had been bound up in a tight turban. She could only be glad that she was free of social engagements that evening. What if all the lice had not been discovered and some fell on the captain!
When she went to sleep that night, she dreamt she was floating down the river in the rowing-boat with Dolly. “You’ve missed something. It’s right under your nose,” said Dolly. Rose awoke with a start. Someone had said something or done something recently that was important. She racked her brain, but could not think what it was.
∨ Sick of Shadows ∧
Eight
A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies.
– OSCAR WILDE
Harry visited Kerridge the next day. “Did you ever interview Lord Berrow?” he asked.
“Yes, but got nothing but the usual bluster out of him.”
“He is a nasty, brutal man. Maybe he knew Dolly was going to run away. I really feel you should interview him again. I’ll come with you. He’ll still be at his town house.”
“I’ll try anything. I don’t like unfinished cases, particularly murder ones.”
Accompanied by Inspector Judd, they went to Lord Berrow’s home. When Berrow heard that a detective superintendent from Scotland Yard had called, he could almost feel his heart shrivel into a tiny knot of panic.
“Very well. I will see this person,” he told his butler loftily. “Put him in the library. Has he come alone?”
“There is a police inspector with him and a Captain Cathcart.”
Berrow wondered whether to make a run for it out of the back door or bluster it out. Bluster won.
He entered the library with a breezy, “What ho! One of my servants been stealing the silver?”
“I have neglected to ask you, my lord, what you were doing on the evening that Miss Tremaine was murdered.”
Relief flooded Lord Berrow’s corpulent body. “Get out of here. You are insolent. Do you know who I am?”
“Answer the question,” said Harry in a level voice.
Berrow stared at him for a long moment. He was sure it was Cathcart who was behind the taking of that dreadful photograph.
To Kerridge’s amazement, Berrow said mildly, “Sorry. But you caught me on the hop. Let me see. It’s a while back. I was at The Club. You can ask the other members. I stayed there until two in the morning. Went home, went to bed. That’s it.”
“You do not have any connection with criminals, do you?” asked Kerridge, thinking that if Berrow had hired an assassin, it didn’t really matter what sort of alibi he had.
“My dear fellow, I do not know such types. I consort with the highest in the land, including our King.”
Kerridge fixed a flat-eyed gaze on him. Berrow shifted uneasily, not knowing that Kerridge was dreaming of him being shot by a firing squad at the people’s revolution, masterminded by himself. He could see this fat lord trembling as he shouted, “Fire!” Then he realized to his consternation that he had shouted aloud.
“What fire? Where?” Berrow looked wildly around. “I don’t have electricity.” People in homes lit by electricity often sat with cushions at the ready to throw at the skirting as the occasional over-powerful surge of electricity caused it to burst into flames.
“My apologies. I was thinking of something else.”
They questioned him further, Berrow growing more and more relaxed when he realized there was to be no mention of that photograph.
But when they had left, he phoned Cyril to tell him of the visit. “I can’t take any more frights like this morning,” he said. “We’ve got to get that negative.”
“He might keep it at his office. I’ve heard there’s only a secretary there.”
“We’ll watch his office.”
“He might see us. I’ll send a servant to let us know. We’ll wait in a coffee shop nearby.”
Ailsa Bridge, Harry secretary, was not her usual placid self because she had run out of gin. While she knew her employer kept drinks in his inner office, she dismissed the idea. That would be stealing. But she began to make mistakes in her typing. She looked longingly at the door of the inner office, where the bottles in the cupboard seemed to be singing a siren song to her.
It was too much. She got to her feet. The telephone rang, making her jump guiltily. It was Harry. “I won’t be back for a couple of hours,” he said. “I don’t have any appointments, do I?”
“Three o’clock is the next one,” said Ailsa.
“Good. I can trust you as usual to take care of anything that arises.”
Ailsa replaced the receiver and stood, lost in thought. If she went out to buy gin, he wouldn’t know. But what if some important case came up and she wasn’t there?
“Just a little fortifier,” she murmured and headed for the inner office. She crouched down by the cupboard. “Whisky, brandy, sherry, but no gin. Blast!”
Whisky would have to do. She extracted the cork with her teeth and took a large swig, feeling the spirit coursing through her veins. And then she heard footsteps on the stairs. She rammed the cork back in the bottle when she heard a man’s voice say, “The place is empty. Let’s get to work before the bastard gets back.”
Ailsa, the prim, spinsterish daughter of missionaries, had been in a lot of difficult situations in Burma. She carefully took the revolver Harry kept in his desk and, holding it behind her thin figure, emerged from the inner office.
Two masked men stood there. The heavy-set one advanced on her. “Sit down and keep your mouth shut,” he growled, “or it will be the worse for you.”
Ailsa produced the revolver from behind her back. “Get out,” she said calmly.
They both stopped short. The other man gave a sniggering laugh. “A little lady like you shouldn’t be playing with guns.”
Ailsa levelled the gun and shot him in the foot. He screamed and fell down. Ailsa picked up the receiver and said, “Police.”
“Let’s get out of here!” screamed the injured one. “I’m dying!”
Helped by his companion, they both stumbled out of the office and down the stairs.
The injured party was Cyril Banks and he had to wait, moaning and crying, while Berrow found a doctor who would keep his mouth shut, knowing that the police would be checking the hospitals. Because he was an inveterate smoker and kept a spare cigarette case inside his elastic-sided boot, his foot was only badly bruised.
After the doctor had left, he and Berrow sat down to think up ways and means of getting that photograph back.
Harry knew who the culprits probably were and told the police. But when they called on Cyril, it was to find he appeared to be walking normally and there was no sign he had been shot. Threatened with everyone from the king to the prime minister, the police backed off with apologies.
When he heard the news, Harry assumed that they had hired a couple of men. “Maybe,” he said to Ailsa, “you should take some leave. They will try again.”
“I am not afraid,” said Ailsa, “although I did have a fright. I am afraid I helped myself to some of your whisky.”
“That’s all right. But be vigilant. There is a police guard now on the door downstairs.”
“We need to be subtle,” said Be
rrow. “She looked like a real dried-up spinster. What about getting someone to romance her? Let me think. Who needs money?”
“Most of London society.”
“We need a charming wastrel.”
“There’s Guy Delancey. Still owes me a packet from a baccarat game. But if he courts her and gets that negative, maybe there’s another print with it and he’ll see that photograph.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll tell him how we were set up.”
♦
The dark days moved on to Christmas. The earl was preparing to remove to Stacey Court in the country. Harry had been invited to join them, and to Rose’s amazement had accepted. He had been at her side as much as he could, but always at social occasions, and had not seemed to make any push to be alone with her.
Rose still diligently worked at the soup kitchen, forgetting in her zeal that the idea had originally been to get her photograph in the newspapers. She now wore her hair tightly bound up in a disinfected turban. At times she wearied of the smell and degradation of the people she was serving and could only marvel at Miss Friendly’s unremitting and cheerful manner.
A hard frost had London in its grip. The earl ordered that the water pipes outside the town house were to be lagged with old sheets because he could see the burst pipes of less diligent owners glittering with long icicles.
Ailsa was leaving work one evening. She stopped outside a butcher’s shop and looked up at the fat geese hanging from hooks.
A light pleasant voice behind her said, “Which one would you like?”
Ailsa turned round. In the light of the shop, she saw a fashionably dressed man with a dissipated face and his tall silk hat worn at a rakish angle.
“I am admiring the birds, sir,” she said. “I will not be buying one.”
“Going to be alone at Christmas?”
“Yes.”
“Me, too. Look, it’s dashed cold evening. Why don’t you join me for a drink in that pub over there?”
Ailsa surveyed him from under the brim of her black felt hat ornamented with a pheasant’s feather. She had not had much to drink that day. Although Harry paid her a good salary, a large part of it went to an orphans’ charity, some on food and rent and the rest on gin.
