Irritated by the lack of tact displayed by the military, he pushed his way through the throng to find his platform, praying that his train would be relatively free of people. He was in no mood to engage in conversation and his leg hurt considerably. Caroline’s application of iodine had stung like the blazes and had set up a throbbing ache that would not diminish.
There had been a second battle in Ypres, in April, and Beech assumed that the wounded were now coming through—hence the scrum in the concourse. Victoria’s husband had been killed in the first battle of Ypres, six months before, and he wondered if this was really a tactful time to approach her.
Caroline had been right, of course. Beech had secretly renewed his hope that Victoria Ellingham would, now that she was widowed, reconsider their once-close relationship. He had been shattered when she gently turned down his marriage proposal in 1910, and explained to him that she was in love with the feckless son of an Irish Earl. He had watched, with mounting disquiet, the first year of their marriage, while her husband drank and gambled his way through his personal fortune, and Victoria turned from an elegant socialite into a pale recluse. He was able to do nothing other than offer his silent support whenever she needed him. And, he confessed to himself, he had felt guilt at his relief when he heard, from his hospital bed, that Victoria’s husband had fallen at Ypres. This would be the first time that they had met since her husband’s death. They had exchanged strange, passive letters in the last six months but nothing more.
In the blessed seclusion of a first-class carriage, Beech folded up his overcoat and placed it on the seat opposite, so that he could raise up his aching leg without getting the dust from his shoes on the seat. Thankfully, no other person entered the compartment as the train pulled away and Beech leant his head to one side and dozed fitfully.
The gentle prodding of a ticket inspector awoke him and he realized, with a start, that Bracknell Station was just two more stops away. He had obviously needed the rest. He eased his leg down from the seat and stood up to dispel the stiffness. He opened the small window of the carriage to draw some cold air into his lungs and he hoped that Victoria’s mother, Lady Maud, would have a large supper set for his arrival as, once again, he felt extremely hungry.
It was almost dark as Beech alighted from the train but he was able to make out the familiar figure of William, Lady Maud’s elderly coachman, standing by a pony and trap in the lane.
“Good to see you again, Mr Beech,” said William affably as Beech nodded with pleasure. As they bobbed along the lanes to the big house, Beech felt a sense of joy at revisiting his youth. Riding in a trap in the countryside took him back to a time before war, mechanization and responsibilities. He smiled broadly at fond memories of long summers, parties, and laughter and he pushed away the thought that life would never be like that again. One has to hope, he reasoned, that once this madness is over we can all find some pleasure in our lives once more.
Lady Maud was waiting on the steps as the trap slowed to a halt. Beech was momentarily disappointed that Victoria was not by her side to greet him but he swiftly brushed that aside, mentally telling himself to stop behaving like a besotted youth.
“Peter!” Maud’s arms were flung wide and she took him into her ample embrace. “I was astonished but very, very pleased that you telephoned. We haven’t seen you for such a long time.”
Beech mumbled something about being incredibly busy and Maud gave him a knowing look.
“Of course you were, my boy. But it was for the best. Victoria needed a long spell of recovery anyway. Come into the house, at once. There is a distinct chill in the air.”
Beech gratefully followed Maud up the steps but she stopped in concern.
“Peter, you’re limping!”
“Yes, the war wound has flared up a bit. But I’ll be alright. Caroline patched me up this afternoon.”
Maud beamed. “Caroline Allardyce? She’s such a lovely and clever girl. How is she doing?”
“Pretty well, I think,” said Peter, as he finished ascending the steps and entered the warmth of the great house. “Is that food I smell?”
“Of course, my dear. I hope you don’t mind rabbit pie. It’s Cook’s wartime specialty.”
“Maud, I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse!”
“Bless us! We haven’t quite come to that yet! Come in, come in and have a brandy first. You look a little pale to me.”
Sitting by the fire, brandy in hand, Beech began to relax. He ventured a few tentative questions about Victoria.
“How is she? Is she well?”
“Peter—I do believe she is on the mend. In the last couple of months she has been working with the VAD at the local officer’s hospital and, at last, I have begun to see some roses in her cheeks. It’s not enough for her agile mind, of course, but it has been instrumental in reviving her spirits.” Maud looked gravely at Beech. “I can’t tell you what a state she was in when she came back to us after Edwin left for the front.”
“It must be harrowing for lots of women to say goodbye to their husbands and send them off to war.”
Maud pursed her lips. “No, it wasn’t that, dear boy. The marriage was, frankly, dreadful—well, you know that. Victoria, being a serious-minded girl, was unfortunately attracted to a lively wastrel—there is no other way of describing him. In the three years after their marriage, I watched the self-esteem shrivel away inside her. The person who came back to live with me was not the daughter I had raised. She was a shell, Peter, a shell.”
Beech felt uncomfortable stirrings of guilt. “I wish I could have done more.”
Maud dismissed his guilt with a shrug. “What could you have done? What could anyone have done? As her mother, I was distraught that I could do nothing. She had made her choice and she had to either live with it or undo it. I tell you, dear boy, I was more than willing to accept the fact that we might suffer the shame of divorce but, frankly, anything would have been better than the existence they were living. I mean, they were two steps away from destitution when Edwin left. Tradesmen had not been paid, staff had left for better employment, and the house was falling apart. And, of course, after Edwin was killed, Victoria became unhinged …”
“She still loved him then?”
Maud gave a hollow laugh. “Oh my dear, no, emphatically not. All her grief was guilt. Pure guilt. I do believe that, deep down, she actually felt she had been released and she found it very difficult to cope with that emotion. But, thankfully, she has pulled herself through it and I think, once you see her, you will find some of the old spark has returned.”
Beech felt some guilt himself. He realized that, just at that moment, he was elated that Victoria had fallen out of love with her husband. He managed to express regret to Maud that he had been unable to support Victoria at her husband’s funeral.
Maud shrugged again. “You were in hospital, my dear! In any event, your presence would have only made Victoria worse. I think she always felt regret that she turned you down, you know.”
Beech flushed. “Perhaps it was for the best.”
“Oh, I don’t know. But, Peter, if you are thinking of proposing again, I should leave it for a few more months if I were you.”
“Good God! I wasn’t thinking any such thing!” he lied. “I’ve come here with a business proposal, that’s all!”
Maud looked askance at him. “If you say so, my dear. I’m intrigued, I must say. But I shall stifle my natural nosiness and let you tell us both at supper. Victoria should be home soon. Her shift finished half an hour ago and they should be back any moment.”
“They?”
“Victoria and Jenkins, the butler. I always send him to escort Victoria home. I can’t have her walking back in the dark alone!”
As if on cue, the front door opened and closed, and voices were heard in the hallway. Victoria burst into the room, in full nurse’s uniform, beaming.
“Peter? I couldn’t believe when Jenkins told me that you were coming to visit! Oh, it’s been such
a long time!”
Victoria flew across the room and enveloped the standing Beech in a hug. He felt her thin arms around his neck and, when he clasped her body, his hands brushed her razor-sharp shoulder blades. Too thin! Too thin! he thought anxiously, but he forced his mouth to smile.
She pulled away, laughing. “I’m so sorry—I probably smell of carbolic soap! I’ve been scrubbing equipment all afternoon.” She took his hands and looked fondly at him. “It’s so good to see you, Peter. Really.” She turned to her mother. “I’m just going to get changed, Ma, but you start dinner, both of you. I won’t be long.” She flashed Beech another smile and left, in a flurry of stiff, white cotton.
Beech turned a stricken face to Maud. “She’s skin and bone,” he said concerned.
Maud patted his arm. “Don’t worry, Peter. We’re shoveling food into her as fast as Cook can make it. She’ll be back to her old self soon.”
Dinner was a delight. Beech and Victoria reminisced over old times—each careful not to mention either her marriage or his war experiences—and they laughed together as Maud watched over them with pleasure.
Finally, after an extravagant dessert, “Especially designed to fatten me up,” pronounced Victoria airily, all three retired to the drawing room for coffee and a warm by the fire.
“Coffee?!” Beech was incredulous. “Where on earth did you get coffee? It’s practically disappeared in London!”
“Ah. Well, Ma hoarded like mad during the first days of the war,” said Victoria mischievously. “Didn’t you, Ma?”
“I did, I’m afraid, and I’m not proud of it,” said Maud, winking at Beech, “but I could see the writing on the wall. All this guff about ‘It’ll be over by Christmas!’ I could see it dragging on for a long time, and I was right. And no one was going to deprive me of my after-dinner cup of coffee! Mind you, we have to use that dreadful tinned milk stuff in it—but I refuse to use those ghastly saccharin tablets for sweetening. We are fortunate to have stores of honey in the cellar.”
Beech savored the taste of the first cup of coffee he had drunk in almost a year.
“Now,” Maud continued firmly, “I cannot wait any longer, Peter. You must tell us about this business proposition of yours.”
“Oh?” Victoria looked at them both. “Is it something exciting?”
Beech took a deep breath and explained, for the third time that day, the case of Lord Murcheson’s murder and his tragic wife. Maud and Victoria were, at once, both suitably shocked and sympathetic. Then Beech told them about his proposal to Sir Edward and the acceptance of the “secret” team. Then, he took the plunge and told them his idea for the members of the team. There was a silence and Beech held his breath.
Victoria and Maud looked at each other but Beech could not tell their emotions.
Finally, Victoria spoke.
“Do you think I should do this, Ma?”
“Victoria, if you think you are strong enough, I think you should,” her mother replied.
Beech allowed himself to breathe again.
“In fact,” Maud continued, “ever since I paid for you to study law at London University, I have been wondering when all that money and hours of study would be put to good use. Frankly, darling, a mind like yours is wasted washing bedpans. The Law Society may not, yet, allow women to practice as solicitors but I think that keeping your hand in by working with the police would be no bad idea.”
Victoria looked at her cup of coffee, thinking hard. Then she slowly smiled and looked at Beech. “I think it would be a good idea too.”
Beech exhaled in triumph.
“Of course, I should have to make two conditions,” Maud said firmly, raising her voice so that they would be in no doubt that she meant business. Beech and Victoria looked at her anxiously. “Firstly, I will have to accompany Victoria to London,” she stated and seeing Beech move to protest, she swiftly added, “but only to look after her, not to be involved in her work.” Beech relaxed again. “And, secondly, I propose that we use our London house as the base for your team. We have lots of empty rooms and that would mean that Victoria could ‘live above the shop’ as it were.”
Beech looked at Victoria, she nodded in encouragement, and he beamed his acceptance. “Brilliant! Maud, you are a genius!”
“Of course I am,” she murmured. “Where do you think Victoria gets her brains from? Perhaps Caroline would like to move in with us, too?” she suggested. “I’m sure she has some poky little room at the hospital but I’m equally sure she would like a nice warm bed and decent food when she is not on call.”
“Another brilliant idea, Ma,” said Victoria happily. “What about this house and the staff ?”
“Well, I have another plan …”
Beech marveled at how Maud had obviously worked out everything in detail in such a short time. “I have been feeling guilty about not contributing more to the war effort,” she continued, “so I propose to offer the house as another military hospital for the duration of the war. Jenkins and our coachman, William, can stay here and make sure that the War Office don’t ruin the place, and we will take Cook and Mary with us. I am bored out of my mind in the country anyway. I shall look forward to being a silent but supportive part of your new team, Peter.”
Beech gave a wry smile. “Supportive you shall be, without a doubt, but silent, I fear, may prove a challenge for you, Maud.”
“Cheeky pup!” she chortled. “Now we should all get some sleep because that poor Lady Harriet is waiting to talk to my daughter, and you need to get the milk train in the morning. Cook, Mary and I will follow on the last train because we shall have a lot of work to do tomorrow. Come along, children!”
A few minutes later, as he sank into a warm bed, Beech felt nothing but satisfaction at the day’s accomplishments. The team was beginning to form, they now had a place from which to work, and he had seen Victoria smiling for the first time in a long while.
CHAPTER 4
P.C. Billy Rigsby stood in the relative quiet of the early morning at Waterloo Station. He was absolutely still, like a statue—six feet seven inches from toe to top of his helmet—and he waited patiently with eager anticipation. The Clerk Sergeant had come to him late last night and told him that he was being seconded to a special unit—orders of Chief Inspector Beech.
“Why me?” Billy had asked, secretly delighted that he was going to get out from behind a desk.
“I dunno, perhaps he wants someone thumped?” the Sergeant had replied sarcastically, and Billy had grinned. “Orders are for you to report to Waterloo Station at eight tomorrow morning and meet the Chief Inspector off a train.”
The reference to “thumping” someone was because everyone at Scotland Yard knew that, prior to the war, Billy Rigsby, aka “The Greek,” had been the youngest ever light heavyweight boxing champion of The Grenadier Guards. His nickname had come from the fact that his Sergeant Major, who ran the boxing team, once said of him, “Stripped down, he looks like a bleedin’ Greek God but he’s got the most vicious right hand I’ve ever seen.” From then on, he had been referred to by the rest of the Regiment as “The Greek.” Glory days—all wiped out on the battlefield at Mons, when he ended up in a field hospital with a shattered left hand, a head wound and a severe case of shell shock. The Guards didn’t want him anymore. “You can’t fire a rifle properly with a gammy hand, son,” they told him while he was still in the hospital. But they found him a place in the police force—although the Met wasn’t entirely sure what to do with him either and, for the last five months, Billy Rigsby had languished in the clerical department at Scotland Yard, while his pent-up energy nearly drove him insane. He prayed fervently that this new job would give him more physical work. Something suited to his talents.
“Constable,” a female voice said and Billy looked down at a small Red Cross nurse holding a mug of tea. “The girls thought you could do with a brew,” she said, nodding toward a gaggle of nurses manning a tea wagon who waved and giggled.
Billy flashed t
hem a disarming smile and a wink as he took off his helmet and accepted the mug of tea. The small nurse in front of him gasped as the removal of his helmet revealed a scar, which went from his hairline, across his right cheekbone, finishing almost at the corner of his mouth.
“Does your helmet strap make that scar hurt?” she enquired anxiously.
“Nah,” said Billy nonchalantly. “I’m used to it now. Thanks for the tea, miss. I’ll bring the mug back when I’m finished.”
Flustered, she hurried off to impart the news to her colleagues that the tall, handsome policeman would be coming over to return his mug. Billy grinned. He liked women—too much, his mother said—and they definitely liked him. The scar, he had found, had added to his appeal, rather than diminished it. Shame about the bloody hand though, he thought to himself as he awkwardly tried to hold the mug with his black-gloved left hand, which he was unable to clench.
Billy looked up from his mug to see that the arrivals board was being changed and he noted, with a start, that the Chief Inspector’s train was due any minute. He raced over to the Red Cross wagon, dumped his mug, and shouted “Thanks girls! Most welcome!,” and ran full-pelt over to the platform, leaving a clutch of nurses disappointed at being deprived of the hoped-for conversation.
He put his helmet back on and stood, ramrod straight, at the ticket barrier. He knew the Chief Inspector quite well. Beech had always taken an interest in him, as they had both been invalided out of the army at the same time and they had both been in the Guards—Billy in the Grenadiers and Beech in the Coldstream. Both regiments were taught to despise each other because of some dispute in the seventeenth century, but Billy found the whole thing a nonsense. “A soldier is a soldier,” he used to say. “We all bleed the same.”
Beech alighted from the train and Billy noted that he was accompanied by an ethereally beautiful woman. Wife? He wondered. Whoever she was, she was a bit on the thin side for Billy’s liking.
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