They all sat and drank, in silence, listening to the shouting and general mayhem in the street, punctuated by a not-so-distant explosion.
“Half of the next street’s gone,” said Sissy quietly. She tried hard not to cry, and added brokenly, “Those six Bradshaw kids at number sixty-two and old Arthur at number ninety.” She set her face hard and said bitterly, “It’s always the poor what cops it. I don’t suppose they’ve had any bombs fall on the fancy mansions up West.”
Everyone bowed their heads and stared into their cups of tea, unable to think of anything to say.
Finally Elsie said, “We’ve been lucky tonight. I shall say a prayer for those who were lost.”
Billy stirred. “Maybe I should go outside and help.” He stood up and buttoned up his greatcoat.
Elsie grabbed his arm. “It’s too dangerous, Billy, I don’t want to be mourning you as well!”
“Ma,” he said reassuringly, patting her hand, “the Zeppelin has moved away. It’s not dangerous anymore. I’m a policeman and there’s people out there who need help. You two stay here with the dog and try and get some rest. I’ll be back before morning and we’ll sort something out. Alright, Mum?”
Elsie nodded.
“You be careful out there!” called Sissy, as Billy walked down the hallway,
“And put that bloody door up straight!” she bawled, as a parting shot. Billy grinned and lifted the door on its one remaining hinge and propped it up in its frame. Then he turned, put his helmet on, and braced himself for action.
Sissy was right. Their street was untouched, save for a few windows blown in and the odd crumbled chimney. It was the next street that had borne the brunt of the bombs and, as he looked toward the horizon, it seemed as though north of Hoxton was in flames.
Billy strode toward the collapsed houses and saw that there was a fire crew and three policemen shifting rubble. He tapped the nearest policeman on the shoulder. “Want some help?” he said briskly.
The policeman nodded. “Start shifting rubble as fast as you can, mate. We’re hoping for some live ones.”
Billy took off his greatcoat and helmet, laid them at the side of the road and started work.
* * *
By five o’clock in the morning, Billy, and all the other men, were exhausted. A pale dawn had managed to filter through the pall of smoke and dust that hung over the north and east of London. The Zeppelin had long disappeared out over the horizon and fires were now burning in Shoreditch and Whitechapel. The night had been punctuated by constant ringing bells from fire engines and ambulances, ferrying backward and forward with firemen, doctors, and nurses. The wounded had gradually come out of their houses—people who had been blown across their front room by the force of the blast but had been too frightened to come out until they were sure that the Zeppelin had passed. Nurses were dealing with cuts and bruises at the side of the road, while those with broken bones were loaded into ambulances.
Clearing the rubble had been a fruitless task. Three dead bodies had been removed but, so far, no living beings except for one cat that had survived in a pocket of air underneath what had once been a staircase. One of the men gave it some water and, after a few hesitant steps, it had curled up on Billy’s greatcoat and fallen asleep. The Liverpool Street tea wagon had drawn up close by and men were pausing to gratefully take mouthfuls of tea. One of the recently arrived firemen said to Billy, “You look like hell, lad. Take a break and let the new blokes take over.”
Billy sank to the ground gratefully by his greatcoat and looked at the sleeping cat. He was wondering what to do about it, when a young girl with a bandaged arm came up and asked, “Is that your cat, mister?”
Billy shook his head. “Pulled it out of the ruins over there.” He pointed at the furthest pile of rubble, which now seemed much smaller.
“It’s my grandma’s then,” she said dully and she picked up the cat, stroking it and murmuring, “Come on, Samson,” as she walked away.
Poor little beggar’s lost her grandma but she’s not crying, thought Billy, and, despite his tiredness, he felt a small surge of anger once more and decided to go back to his mother’s house.
He found Sissy and his mother asleep, slumped over the kitchen table with the dog at their feet. He gently picked up the metal jug and tiptoed out to get a refill for them. “Don’t put too much milk in it,” whispered Sissy, without raising her head and Billy smiled.
* * *
After Billy had left for Hoxton, Beech had walked back to the Murcheson house to find a small rebellion on his hands. The three women were dressed and had hastily packed bags at their feet but Cook had announced that she and Anne were leaving London and the Murcheson house for good.
“Lady Harriet’s likely to die, sir. There’s no one here to cook for and now the Germans are dropping bombs on us. I’m off to my brother’s house in Surrey and Anne here has got family in Wales. Sorry, sir, but we see no point in staying.” The woman had been adamant and Beech had been powerless to persuade her otherwise. Esme had been tearful and didn’t want to stay in the house on her own, so Beech had managed to persuade her to come back to Mayfair with him. The house had been locked up and they had all gone their separate ways—Cook to Victoria Station, Anne to wait for a night bus to Paddington Station, Beech and Esme departing on foot to Mayfair.
By the time they had reached Mayfair, Beech was worrying about the Belgravia house being empty and the possibility of losing the opportunity to apprehend Dodds, should he return. So, with a cursory explanation to Victoria regarding the situation, he had turned on his heel and had walked back, yet again, to Belgravia.
Unable to sleep, he had lain awake on Dodds’ bed, fully clothed, until the light began to creep into the basement and he had decided to make some tea and find something to eat. Looking at the kitchen clock, he had realized that it was now almost seven in the morning. It was while he was investigating the multitude of cupboards in the kitchen that he was startled by banging on the basement door and he opened it to find a dirty and disheveled Billy Rigsby in front of him, carrying two bags and flanked by two women and a dog.
“I didn’t know where else to take them, sir,” said Billy, apologetically.
A relieved Beech suddenly found himself in the midst of a whirlwind of activity. Billy’s mother and aunt, who had apparently both been in service in their youth, settled in, and it wasn’t long before they were producing food from all quarters of the kitchen, while Billy was making up the sluggish fire that Cook had left to burn itself out in the stove.
“Oh thank you for being so kind, sir,” chattered Elsie, as she took a large cast-iron frying pan down from a hook on the wall. “We was beside ourselves in Hoxton, what with no gas and running water. Billy said you wouldn’t mind if we stopped here for a bit. We won’t be no trouble—will we, Sissy?”
“No,” Sissy added, “we’ll keep the place spick and span and we don’t mind sleeping in a cupboard, if that’s all there is. And Timmy here is no trouble.”
“I think he wants to go out, Ma,” said Billy, nodding at the dog, who was whining by the back door.
Elsie unlocked the door and let the little terrier out. “Sissy!” she shrieked, making Beech jump. “Look at this garden!”
Sissy rushed over to admire the view. “That dog of yours will think he’s died and gone to heaven,” she said in wonder.
Billy sat down opposite Beech and looked apologetic again. “Sorry, sir. The ladies in my family are a bit loud.”
Beech grinned. “Don’t apologize, Rigsby. It’s delightful. I am so relieved that they are alive and well. How was it in Hoxton?”
“Grim, sir,” and Billy explained all about the damage, the dead bodies, the smoke, fire, explosions, and general horror that he had experienced. “The East End was lucky last night, if you can call it that, sir,” he added. “One of the ambulance drivers said that he had heard at the London Hospital that there were only a couple of dozen killed. It could have been much more.”
&nbs
p; Beech nodded soberly. “I fear that they will come back,” he said. Then he looked around at Elsie, who was beginning to fry bacon. “That smells good!” he exclaimed.
“I’m going to do us all a big fry-up, Mr Beech,” she said cheerfully. “Ooh, that dog can smell bacon a mile off!” she added as Timmy came skittering in through the open back door, tail wagging. Sissy appeared with some eggs and mushrooms and the two of them began some serious work, frying up, slicing, and buttering bread.
“I expect we’ll have a furious cook descend on us from upstairs in a minute,” warned Sissy.
“Er … no, you won’t,” answered Beech and then gave a detailed explanation of the staff mutiny. “So you will have the house to yourselves for the foreseeable future,” he added.
When they were all tucking into the feast laid before them and Timmy had been given his own saucer of chopped up bacon, Beech decided to explain the whole case of the Murcheson murder and the subsequent events of the last three days. Elsie and Sissy tutted between mouthfuls.
“So how is this poor Lady Harriet?” asked Elsie.
“Suspended between life and death, the last I heard, and no news either way since,” replied Beech, helping himself to another slice of bread to mop up his egg yolk. “I hope it won’t bother you—being in a house where a murder has taken place?” Beech was suddenly concerned.
Billy grinned. “My aunt Sissy used to work for the local undertaker, sir. Dead bodies don’t bother her none.”
“Good Lord!”
Sissy nodded. “I used to lay them out—you know, wash the bodies, brush their hair, put a bit of make-up on the ladies—that sort of thing,” she said nonchalantly. “Besides, I don’t believe in ghosts. If such a thing existed, London would be full of them, Mr Beech,” she said with an air of finality. “You wouldn’t be able to move for the spirits of the dead.”
“Quite.” Beech was fascinated by these two strong and capable women. “It strikes me, ladies,” he ventured, “that you would be doing Lady Harriet a favor by keeping this place in reasonable shape while she’s ill. A bit of light dusting, that sort of thing. If you wouldn’t mind?”
Elsie beamed. “In return for a safe place to sleep, Mr Beech! I should think we’d be more than happy to do that!”
Beech felt duty-bound, however, to warn them about the possibility of Dodds returning.
Sissy was scornful. “He won’t get far past the threshold while we’re here, sir! Don’t you worry.”
Beech seemed unsure until Billy said, laughing, “Who do you think taught me to throw a punch, sir? My aunt Sissy’s the best boxing coach I ever had!”
Sissy clenched her fist in mock anger and growled. They all subsided in laughter.
Beech stood and patted his stomach in satisfaction. “Well, ladies, I must go to Scotland Yard now and deal with the overnight reports. Doubtless I shall have a mountain of paperwork to deal with, given last night’s activity. Thank you for that splendid meal, which will set me up for the rest of the day.” He turned to Billy. “Rigsby, you must get some sleep, you must be done in. Perhaps we could gather at Lady Maud’s house around lunchtime? Tollman will hold the fort until then.”
“Yes, sir.”
Beech let himself out and the Rigsby clan gathered for a hug of congratulation.
“I told you he was a good man, didn’t I?” Billy chided them.
“He’s a proper gentleman,” agreed Elsie.
“Fancy him just letting us take over this place!” Sissy marveled. “And not a word about Timmy, either!” She turned to Elsie in triumph. “This is going to put Ada’s nose out of joint, Else! She’s always banging on about her sister-in-law’s cottage in Brighton, like it was some palace or something. Well, now we can write to her and tell her that we’re living up the road from the King and Queen. She’ll have a right fit!”
Tollman arrived at Mayfair, with the early edition of the newspaper under his arm, to find a clutch of women, still in their nightdresses, eating breakfast in the kitchen.
Lady Maud looked up from her toast and exclaimed, “Mr Tollman! Do excuse our attire but Mr Beech insisted we spend the night in the basement. I’m glad you managed to find us.”
“I just followed the sound of voices, Your Ladyship,” he said bemused, as Mrs Beddowes pressed a cup of tea into his hand. “Is everyone alright?” he enquired, “only it was a rum do in London last night.”
“It was indeed, Mr Tollman, a rum do,” Lady Maud agreed soberly.
Victoria explained the sequence of events—Caroline’s phone call, Beech’s mission over to the Murcheson house to tell Billy that Hoxton had been bombed and Beech’s return with Esme.
“Did Billy find his family?” Tollman asked anxiously.
“We don’t know, as yet,” Victoria answered, “but I’m hoping that Peter will ring us as soon as he knows anything.”
Right on cue, the telephone in the hallway began to ring and Tollman went up the back stairs to answer it.
“Tollman?” Beech said.
“Yes, sir, I’ve just arrived. What’s the news?”
“All good, thankfully. Billy’s mother and aunt are alive and well and billeted at the Murcheson house …”
“Are they, sir?!” Tollman was startled at the development.
“Yes, I thought it killed two birds with one stone, so to speak. They have a place to stay and in return they undertake to keep everything in good order. Better than having the place empty.”
“Yes, sir. A good idea.”
“So, Tollman … Rigsby is getting some much-needed rest, I am at the Yard dealing with the reports from last night and I suggest that we all convene at lunchtime. I don’t know what time Doctor Allardyce will be back, as she was hard at work last night dealing with the consequences of the bombing. So you will have to hold the fort, as it were.”
“No problem, sir. I suspect it will be quiet, as I shall suggest that all the ladies here go and have a nap.”
“Good man. I shall see you at lunchtime.” The receiver went dead and Tollman replaced it on the cradle. He smiled to himself as he went back down to the kitchen to impart the good news.
If I can get them all to have a nap, he thought, then I can have a read of the paper and maybe forty winks myself.
After all, he’d been up half the night with three hysterical daughters thinking they were all going to be bombed into oblivion. He deserved to put his feet up.
CHAPTER 14
Scotland Yard was on high alert when an exhausted Beech arrived. Not only were there men to be dispatched to continue with the clear-up in the East End but reports were coming in from the beat bobbies that hordes of “day-trippers” were turning up to see the damage and, in a distasteful manner, they were picking over the ruins for “souvenirs.” Then, there came an alert that there were people gathering in outraged protest outside Buckingham Palace, somehow feeling that the King could do something about the Kaiser’s war crimes, and, finally—worst of all—crowds were attacking any premises with German-sounding names, smashing windows, and threatening grievous bodily harm. London’s police force was stretched to the limit.
Beech joined the Commissioner, the other Divisional Detective Inspectors, and Chief Constables in a strategy meeting. He was so tired that he felt almost distant from the proceedings but, nonetheless, realized that he would have to push through his tiredness and contribute some sensible options. Eventually, it was decided that the King’s Household Police would have to deal with the crowd outside the Palace. Then it was suggested that they would have to request that the River Police, based at the Port of London, temporarily assist in dealing with the attacks on the shops and businesses in the East End of London. The rest would be dealt with by the foot patrols and some extra help.
“Perhaps we could bus in some of the women’s patrols to help with crowd control at the sites of the bombings?” Beech ventured and was rewarded with several disdainful looks.
The Commissioner gave a small smile and said, “Actually, Beech,
that’s not a bad idea. The WPS scare the hell out of me, so perhaps they can do the same with these unsavory day-trippers!” The men around the table laughed and Beech felt a flush of pleasure. “When we’ve finished here, perhaps you could get one of your men to organize some charabancs so we can get Margaret Damer Dawson’s women over there?” Sir Edward added, looking at Beech, who nodded in agreement.
“I have a meeting this morning with the Home Secretary and various representatives of the War Office,” Sir Edward continued. “I don’t know if anything will come out of it. We failed to agree on sensible measures to be taken earlier this month when the Lusitania was sunk and we had to deal with the riots afterward. I think that this time, however, we shall have to insist on a full blackout of London.” There was a general murmur of despair around the table. “I know, I know,” Sir Edward continued, “it only makes our job of policing the capital harder but we cannot give the Zeppelins targets to aim at, can we, gentlemen?” Everyone reluctantly agreed. “However, we may still encounter resistance from those Members of Parliament who have vested interests in the entertainment establishments of the West End. Who knows? But they surely cannot defend their interests in the light of last night’s tragedy. What is also needed,” he continued, “is a more stringent defense system around London. We all know that. The Admiralty are just not producing the goods. Their warning system to us last night was both inadequate and late. We could have done with a lot more notice of the approaching Zeppelin and then we could have, possibly, evacuated people. I’m afraid that this is just the start of these raids and Military Intelligence informs me that the Kaiser has issued orders that his people may not bomb Central and West London, for fear of killing his relatives. So it looks as though the East End may be the target again. They are trying to put the docks along the river out of action and demoralize the population at the same time. The difficulty, as we all know, is that we simply do not have enough men to deal with this added problem. The War Office may have to look at volunteer patrols and that, I’m afraid gentlemen, brings us back to the women again.”
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