There was a collective murmur of dissatisfaction and one or two of the Chief Constables expressed their concern that their men did not want to work alongside the women’s groups.
“These are difficult times, gentlemen,” said Sir Edward with no small amount of impatience. “You must counsel your men to put aside their prejudices. I am not suggesting that these women become fully fledged police officers—far from it—but we must use every resource we have available for these non-criminal activities. I can’t have us using trained police officers for crowd control, rescue operations, and guarding foreign businesses. If we are facing a complete blackout of night-time London, the criminal population are going to see it as an opportunity to commit crimes with impunity. We have to concentrate all our efforts in that direction. For example,” he added, “if—and I stress—if we can get the Admiralty to give us better warning of Zeppelins crossing the coastline at any point, we can use the women’s patrols to rouse people from their beds and get them down into the Underground train stations. That, at least, might cut down on the level of casualties. We must speak to the Transport Division about implementing an orderly and safe system of accepting an influx of people into the stations after dark. It will require them to undertake all kinds of supervisory measures, which they won’t like, I’m sure, but nevertheless it must be done.”
The meeting dragged on for another hour, during which they pored over maps of gas supplies and electricity conduits and generally talked about defense measures. There was a discussion about providing police protection at the hospitals, which was dismissed due to the sheer number of hospitals that had sprung up in the capital over the last year, while the number of available police officers had dwindled.
“I am told by the War Office,” Sir Edward relayed to the assembly, “that, despite the number of large houses in London that have been given over to be temporary army hospitals, the hospital system is at breaking point. There are currently fifteen thousand wounded men being held in France because we have no beds for them in London. The Germans’ use of poison gas at Ypres last month has created an unprecedented number of wounded. I hope that the Home Secretary will decide to relocate many of these hospitals out into the countryside as we cannot be responsible for the mass evacuation of patients into underground locations in the event of more Zeppelin raids. We simply don’t have the manpower to cope.”
The meeting eventually broke up in an atmosphere of despondency. Never had London’s police force been so hard-pressed and yet the public continued to urge young men to enlist and fight in France. None of the senior police officers present could see how the situation could be improved. One by one the men drifted out, back to their units, but Sir Edward signaled silently to Beech to remain. When just the two of them were left, the Commissioner quietly asked Beech how the Murcheson case was progressing.
Beech shook his head. “Slowly, sir, I’m afraid. We have circulated photographs of the missing butler and the scullery maid among the regular force and the women’s patrols. Nothing as yet but we are hopeful.”
“Mm. And how is your new team shaping up?”
Beech brightened. “Better than expected, sir. We have also enlisted the help of a female pharmacist who has been jolly helpful in the analysis of various substances.”
Sir Edward smiled. “So, your females all have special talents, then?”
Beech laughed. “Yes sir! A doctor, a lawyer and, now, a pharmacist. Oh and I think I may have acquired two redoubtable East End women as general factotums—you know, nurses, caretakers, and bodyguards.”
“Bodyguards! Good Lord! Are they that fearsome, then?”
“Well, one, apparently, has a pretty good right hook.”
Sir Edward laughed and patted Beech on the back. “Well done, man,” he said jovially. “I can see that you are making good use of what meager resources are to hand. Keep me posted.”
“Will do, sir.”
Sir Edward then left for his undoubtedly grueling meeting with the government bodies that would decide the fate of London in the foreseeable future.
* * *
Billy had gone off to Mayfair and Sissy and Elsie were exploring the Murcheson house. Elsie had decided that they should take their boots off in case they made any marks on the floors.
“We don’t want to give ourselves any more work than is necessary, do we?” commented Elsie, as Sissy begrudgingly took off her boots and left them in the kitchen.
They climbed up to the top of the house, Timmy scampering behind them, and began to investigate. Timmy took a fancy to a servant’s bed in the attic, and no amount of cajoling would make him relinquish his snug place on the blanket.
“Oh, leave him,” said Sissy, in the end. “He’ll come down again when he’s hungry.” So they left him, curled up in a ball and faintly snoring.
Each room was inspected for dust and pronounced in need of a good “going over.” Lady Harriet’s room was locked, of course, as Beech had requested.
“The murder room,” said Sissy, when she realized the door wouldn’t open and Elsie remarked that she wouldn’t want to go in there anyway.
“I reckon they must have some dust sheets somewhere,” Sissy observed, as they examined more bedrooms “We should cover some of the big pieces of furniture up. Save it getting dusty while it’s not being used.”
They pronounced the first-floor dining room as “beautiful” but didn’t care much for the wallpaper. Elsie thought it looked too cheap for a Lord’s house and Sissy agreed. They were just about to go into the drawing room and give that the benefit of their discriminating taste when Sissy grabbed Elsie’s arm and mouthed, “I heard a door close.” They stood like statues and strained to listen. They had left the door between the main house and the basement open and they clearly heard another door open and close again.
“Follow me,” Sissy whispered, as she tiptoed in her stockinged feet down the grand staircase toward the open basement door, followed by an anxious and reluctant Elsie. They heard a man’s voice, gruff and common. It appeared he was talking to someone. Elsie tugged at Sissy’s sleeve and mouthed, “Telephone,” and Sissy nodded. They edged closer toward the open door and Sissy soundlessly extricated a brass-handled walking stick from the stand in the hall and then brandished it like a club, ready to attack should the unknown man come up the stairs.
They listened, barely breathing, and they heard the man say, “I need the money tonight, I’m going away,” then there was a pause and he said menacingly, “You’d better, or I’ll have to tell the police everything.” Sissy and Elsie looked at each other in alarm. “Dodds,” Sissy mouthed and Elsie nodded. Then the man said, “Eight o’clock at the Queen’s Head. Don’t be late or it’ll be the worse for you.”
The women heard drawers opening and closing, the clatter of items being knocked to the floor and footsteps back and forth as the man appeared to be searching for something. They heard the scraping of a chair and grunting as he seemed to be making an effort to move or retrieve objects. Then he exclaimed “Bloody woman!” and something was thrown, which smashed into pieces. Sissy tightened her grip on the walking stick and poised herself for action but then they heard the basement door slam. Quick as a flash, Sissy grabbed Elsie and they darted over to the front window, dropped down and peered over the sill. They both saw an angry man ascending the basement steps carrying a large carpet bag and he walked swiftly past the front of the house and down the road. The women turned round and sank to the floor, exhaling in relief.
“I thought we was gonners there, Sissy,” said Elsie, trembling from the ordeal.
“Nah,” replied her sister, scornfully, “I would have laid him out with this.” She waved the walking stick feebly in the air and they both giggled.
At that point, a curious Timmy appeared at the top of the stairs and cocked his head to one side.
“Oh, now you decide to make an appearance!” Elsie exclaimed sarcastically. “Can’t rely on you to defend us, can we?”
Timmy barked ha
lf-heartedly and they giggled again.
“’Old up!” said Sissy suddenly, “we’d better ring Billy and tell him what’s gone on. What did he say that number was again?”
“Mayfair one hundred,” Elsie replied as they heaved themselves up and went downstairs to survey the damage.
The kitchen looked as though it had been torn apart and Dodds’ room had been stripped of items that were previously on shelves. The small wardrobe in the corner had been left open and was bare.
“He’s been and got his stuff … looks like he’s going on the run,” Sissy observed. “He won’t be back—but put the bolt on the door anyway—and I’ll phone Billy. Don’t touch nothing!” she warned. “Billy’s boss will want to have a look at everything.”
Elsie looked at her, frustrated. “How can I put the bolt across if I can’t touch nothing?”
“I didn’t mean don’t touch the bolt, flannel-head!” was Sissy scornful response, as she made for the telephone.
A disgruntled Elsie shot the bolt and glared at her sister’s retreating back. “Well, people should say what they mean!” she said loudly.
* * *
Beech had just arrived at the Mayfair house when Sissy rang. Then he was just about to organize Billy’s return to the house, when Caroline arrived, fresh from the hospital. No sooner had she dropped her bag on the hall table when the telephone rang again and Mrs Beddowes announced that Polly had been sighted at an address in Pimlico.
The team were galvanized into action.
Beech issued orders. “Billy, take Lady Harriet’s parlormaid with you. If Dodds has broken items in the kitchen or taken things, Esme might be able to tell you what is missing. Make sure you take detailed notes!”
Billy nodded and sped down to the kitchen to grab Esme.
Tollman, meanwhile, was looking at the address Mrs Beddowes had written down on a piece of paper. “I know this place,” he volunteered. “It’s a brothel run by a woman called Maisie Perkins.”
Beech was momentarily halted by this piece of information. “Let’s hope we are not too late for Polly’s sake,” he commented grimly. “Who phoned it in?”
“One of the WSPP volunteers. It says here she saw Polly’s face at the downstairs window.”
Beech turned to Caroline. “Caro, I know you must be dead on your feet, but could you go with Tollman on this one? The girl may need medical attention and, in any event, she may prefer to speak to a woman, rather than a man.”
Caroline nodded. “Not a problem, Peter. I’m perfectly fine. I’m used to doing all-nighters. I find I usually don’t feel tired until about four in the afternoon.”
Beech nodded gratefully. He turned to Victoria. “I think it might be time for us to pay a visit to Lady Harriet’s solicitor, if you don’t mind?”
Victoria beamed. “Thank goodness! I thought you were going to leave me out of the team this morning!”
“As if I would,” murmured Beech, as she sped past him to fetch her coat.
“By the way,” announced Caroline loudly, to everyone, “Lady Harriet’s temperature went down overnight and she was awake for a whole hour and able to eat some solid food.”
A small cheer rippled around the hallway as they all digested this piece of news.
“Well, that’s a result!” said Billy, as he put his helmet on and was joined by Esme.
“It certainly is, Billy,” said Caroline cheerfully, “I don’t like losing patients!”
Everyone went their separate ways, buoyed by the knowledge that, at last, they seemed to be making some progress with the case. Dodds had surfaced, Polly had been sighted and Lady Harriet was pulling through.
* * *
Billy surveyed the mess in the kitchen and then carefully picked his way through the broken crockery to look at the butler’s room off to the side. He took his notebook out.
“Well, he’s definitely scarpered,” he observed. “Lucky you weren’t in the kitchen when he arrived.” Both women nodded their agreement.
“He obviously had a key,” said Sissy, “’cos that door was locked from the inside after you left and the key was up on the wall there.” She pointed to the key hanging on the hook nearby.
“Well, he would have,” piped up Esme. “Thank God I wasn’t here on my own! I should have fainted dead away, I should!”
“Just to make sure,” said Billy, retrieving a picture of Dodds from his pocket. “Is this the man you saw?”
Sissy and Elsie both murmured assent.
“Just look at him!” Sissy commented. “Don’t he look the master criminal?”
Billy grinned. “Well, it’s an offenders’ photograph. Taken when he was charged with a crime. These pictures make everyone look evil.”
“Can I put the kettle on, Billy?” asked Elsie, clutching Timmy in her arms for fear of him cutting his paws on the broken china on the floor. “Only I feel in need of a brew, my nerves are that frayed.”
“Course you can, Ma,” said Billy. He motioned to the parlormaid. “Now, Esme, look at the floor and tell me what Dodds has smashed and why.”
Esme looked carefully at the various pieces of china and pottery on the floor, then she said triumphantly, “They’re all Cook’s tradesman pots! He must have been after the money that she puts aside to pay the butcher, the fishmonger, and so on. She keeps it all in separate pots and bowls up on the shelf there. Only, he must have been disappointed,” she added, “’cos she took all the money with her. Said Lady Harriet could at least pay for her and Annie’s train fares. I reckon there was probably ten pounds all told!”
“No wonder that man was so angry!” observed Sissy. “He shouted ‘bloody woman!” afore he smashed things.”
“Right,” said Billy, writing in his book, “Esme, be a good girl and sweep this lot up, then we’ll sit down and have a cup of tea, and you two can tell me, in detail, what you saw and heard.”
* * *
In the cab, on the way to Pimlico, Tollman filled Caroline in on his knowledge of the premises they were about to visit.
“It’s what I would call a medium-grade establishment, Doctor,” he said. “Pimlico houses are large and not cheap to rent. Maisie Perkins runs a knocking shop that’s a cut above the low-grade places you usually find around the main railway stations. But, I suspect, that that is because it is within brisk walking distance of the Houses of Parliament, if you get my drift, Doctor,” and he winked, knowingly.
Caroline nodded but did not smile. “I do indeed, Mr Tollman,” she replied. “Only last week I had to tell a refined lady—wife of a Member of Parliament—that she had contracted a venereal disease from her husband. He probably caught it from an establishment like the one we are about to visit.”
“Actually, Doctor,” Tollman responded thoughtfully, “I’m not sure that he did. Maisie Perkins runs a clean shop. All clients have to be clean, suited, and booted, if you get my drift and, I believe, she has a doctor on call for all her girls.”
“Really?” Caroline’s interest was piqued. “I shall take notes. Perhaps I can teach some of the poorer prostitutes some of her practices. We spend too much time at the Women’s Hospital and the London treating syphilis and repairing botched abortions.”
Tollman shook his head in wonder. What a strange and sordid profession for an upper-class woman to be engaged in! He looked at Caroline with renewed respect.
Madame Perkins, for that is what she insisted on being called, was strangely welcoming when Tollman rang the front doorbell.
“I suppose you’ve come looking for that girl!” she announced, as soon as she opened the door and Tollman flashed his warrant card. “Well, she’s gone! I told her to go and now I need protection from George Sumpter!”
She motioned Caroline and Tollman to follow her into the back parlor and bawled down to the kitchen “Evelyne! Bring me a pot of tea and three cups, at once!”
Once inside the parlor, all three of them sat on expensively upholstered chairs and Madame began her tale. As she spoke, an astonished Car
oline realized that this plump, middle-aged woman before them was middle class, with good taste in décor and furniture, judging by the surroundings, and behaved, for all the world, as though she was running a hat shop not a brothel.
“George Sumpter brought that young girl, Polly, here the night before last. Now you understand, Detective Sergeant, that I don’t usually have many dealings with a man like George Sumpter, but he has brought me young ladies in the past who wished to work in the … er … profession.”
“I understand,” said Tollman, making notes.
The tea arrived, delivered by a respectable-looking maid, and there was a pause while Madame poured everyone a cup of tea and observed the niceties of sugar and milk.
Cup in hand and fortified by a mouthful of tea, Madame resumed. “I say that, in the past, George Sumpter had brought girls to me. However, I do not mean to imply that I employed them. Oh no! Hardly any of them were suitable for my establishment, which, as you know, Detective Sergeant, prides itself on its discerning taste, refined young ladies and utter discretion. I think, that out of fifteen girls he may have brought to my door, only two were suitable.”
“And Sumpter would get a fee from you, for every girl he supplied?” asked Tollman.
“Yes,” Madame continued, “after one month had passed and the girl had proved satisfactory. You must understand—” her voice had a note of urgency and she leaned forward to emphasize her point “—I am not a white slaver! I do not take girls into my establishment that do not wish to be here. It is all voluntary. No one is kept here against their will and they are all properly instructed before they start work. No one is under any illusion about the nature of the work. George Sumpter, I have heard, runs a small business using amateurs. Overpainted doxies who are not properly trained.”
“But what about, Polly?” Caroline was becoming impatient.
Murder in Belgravia Page 16
