Murder in Belgravia

by Lynn Brittney

Madame shot her a troubled glance. “Well, this is my point, dear. He turned up with this young girl—virtually a child, for goodness sake! I must stress that all my ladies are over the age of twenty-one. Any gentleman looking for unsavory services, involving underage girls, must go elsewhere. I will not tolerate it!”

  “Polly?” Tollman reminded her gently, which brought Madame back from her flurry of indignation.

  “Yes, well, the poor child was obviously distressed and Sumpter was up to no good. He did not offer her to me as an employee—which I would have refused anyway—but said that she needed to be hidden here for a while and then he threatened me. He said that if I told anyone about the girl, he would ‘do for me,’ whatever that means. I have no doubt that it meant some sort of violence.”

  “What did Polly say?” asked Caroline, aching for Madame to get to the point.

  “She said that something bad had happened where she worked but she wouldn’t enlarge on that. She was upset about Sumpter—kept calling him Mr Dodds—and she said that he had promised to take her home and that he had said that everything was alright now. But it obviously wasn’t.” Madame’s carefully controlled façade was beginning to crumble. “I asked her if she had any family and she said no, she was an orphan from Barnardo’s, so I suggested that she went back there, for protection. I gave her some money for the railway train and she left. I was just about to contact Scotland Yard, in the vain hope that I might be offered some protection, when you arrived, Detective Sergeant.” Madame looked flustered again and addressed Caroline. “I’m sorry, Miss, but I’m not quite sure who you are.”

  “I’m a doctor,” Caroline answered simply. “The police thought that Polly might be in need of medical attention and they asked me to attend.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, apart from being upset, she seemed in perfect health to me,” Madame volunteered. “If there had been any problem, I would have called my own doctor in to examine her.”

  “And who is your doctor, Madame?” Caroline enquired.

  Madame looked affronted. “Discretion is my byword, Miss …”

  “Doctor Allardyce,” Caroline said firmly. “And I can assure you that neither DS Tollman nor I will divulge the name of your doctor to anyone else.”

  Madame shook her head. “My doctor is of the top rank. From Harley Street. He has many titled patients. If it were known that he also administered to my girls—if even a whisper were to get out—it would ruin his business! You must understand.”

  Caroline reluctantly agreed with Madame but, nonetheless, she remained curious as to the identity of this egalitarian doctor.

  “So, am I to get some protection, Detective Sergeant?” Madame persisted.

  “Yes, Madame,” Tollman nodded. “Do you have a telephone here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then if I might use it to organize a protective detail?”

  “You must understand, Detective Sergeant—” Madame was most insistent “—I cannot have a uniformed policeman outside my front door. In fact I cannot have a uniformed policeman in the house. It must be discreet. What would my clients think?”

  Tollman sighed. “I shall organize some plain-clothed muscle, Madame, just until we have George Sumpter under arrest. Now, the telephone?”

  “Ah, yes. In the hallway, there is a booth set in an alcove.”

  Tollman left to make a call, leaving Caroline and Madame in uneasy silence.

  “Madame,” Caroline said, deciding to be as respectful as possible, “when I was enquiring about your doctor earlier, I was merely concerned that you and your ladies were getting the best possible attention and help with disease prevention.”

  Madame relaxed a little and smiled. “You need not worry, Doctor Allardyce,” she replied, her tone reassuring, “my ladies are regularly inspected, our clients must disinfect themselves before partaking and they must always wear protection. It is the amateur trollops on the streets—brought here by the fascination of soldiers in uniform—these are the ones who spread disease.”

  “Do you see the clients yourself ?”

  Madame raised her eyebrows. “Do you mean …?”

  “Oh, no, no!” Caroline apologized hastily. “I meant, do you physically see them, when they arrive? Before they avail themselves of the services?”

  “Oh yes!” replied Madame. “I receive all the clients in the front parlor and I make small talk with them, offer them stimulants, and so on, while they are waiting for the girl of their choice.”

  “I see. So has your doctor taught you and your ladies to be aware of signs on the face or lips that could be an indication of venereal disease?” Caroline found it amusing that Madame visibly bristled at the word “venereal.”

  I do believe, Caroline thought to herself, that she has convinced herself she is running a bridge club or some other refined gathering!

  “Of course!” was Madame’s curt reply. “Really, Doctor, I have been running this business for nearly twenty-five years and I have never lost a girl to any kind of disease.”

  Caroline was nothing if not dogged in her pursuit of information. “And may I ask what stimulants you offer your clients?”

  “Oh, some powders that my doctor provides and, of course, we have all the spirits—whisky, brandy, port, and we have fine cigars—whatever a gentleman may fancy. Although these may become more difficult to obtain if this wretched war continues.”

  “May I see?”

  Madame smiled. “Of course. Follow me.” She led the way into a large room at the front of the house, which, to Caroline, was much more of her idea of how a brothel should be decorated. There were red plush sofas, walnut tables littered with postcards of nude and semi-nude women, there was erotic art on the wall and, along one side of the room was a sideboard displaying several full decanters of spirits, a large cigar box, bowls of prophylactics, and some silver bowls containing the exact same packets of heroin that had been in the possession of Lord Murcheson. Caroline picked one up. The fold of the paper was the same.

  She waved one in the air as she enquired, “And you said that your doctor provides these packets of stimulants?”

  Madame nodded. “We get a fresh supply every month. In fact, George Sumpter delivers them.”

  “Oh?” Caroline was surprised. “You didn’t mention that before!”

  “Didn’t I?” Madame looked flustered again. “Well, I suppose it didn’t seem to be very important in the light of this other matter with the girl.”

  Tollman stuck his head around the door and was momentarily lost for words at the sight of the décor.

  “Er … Madame,” he said, “I have arranged for one of our finest policemen, in plain clothes, to take up residence here until we apprehend Sumpter. He will be here within the hour. So I suggest you lock your doors and sit tight until he arrives.”

  “Of course, Detective Sergeant. We have no clients until seven o’clock this evening anyway.” Madame seemed satisfied and led the way to the front door.

  Outside in the street, Tollman and Caroline looked at each and laughed.

  “Well, Mr Tollman, that was the greatest exercise in self-delusion I’ve ever witnessed,” said Caroline, shaking her head in disbelief. “I do believe the woman thinks she’s running some sort of finishing school!”

  “You couldn’t make it up, could you, Doctor?” agreed Tollman.

  * * *

  Beech and Victoria decided to take the omnibus to Fleet Street. It was a crisp May afternoon that seemed to lift people’s spirits, despite the horrors of the night before. The sun was shining weakly on London, as if to soothe its soul. The crowds had obviously decided to cheer themselves up and make the most of the daytime safety. The flower sellers, who usually struggled to sell their wares all along the Strand, had almost empty baskets. Men were sporting flowers in their lapels and there seemed to be a mood of defiant jollity. The newspaper sellers had replaced their early morning posters pronouncing the horror of the Zeppelin attack with messages of bravado. “The King says we shal
l prevail!” read one. “Killer Kaiser will be shot!” read another.

  Victoria wondered how brave Londoners would be if the Zeppelin attacks became a regular occurrence.

  It’s hard to maintain an air of defiance in the face of continuous terror, she thought but then she remembered her months at the army hospital in Berkshire, where the men, some terribly wounded and maimed for life, seemed to summon resources of cheerfulness and courage despite everything. Part of the British character, I suppose, she reasoned. Just like the women in her family. Always marrying soldiers, always being widowed, but always resourceful.

  “Penny for them?” said Beech suddenly, making her start.

  “Sorry?”

  “Penny for your thoughts,” repeated Beech. “You seemed miles away.”

  “Oh.” She smiled in embarrassment. “Sorry. I was just thinking how London seems to have sprung back to its old self—despite last night’s horrors.”

  “Yes,” said Beech, but he was thinking about the meeting at the Yard and Sir Edward’s grim prediction of how London’s authorities would cope in the event of more Zeppelin attacks. “We’re here,” he said, as the omnibus drew up outside the Law Courts, and they scrabbled quickly to get off.

  The walk through Lincoln’s Inn Fields was pleasant. Some ladies were playing tennis. Soldiers, presumably on leave, were laying on the grass with their jackets undone. Birds chattered and hopped about in the trees. An elderly man was walking two dogs. All seemed tranquil and yet, Beech reasoned, barely three miles away, people’s homes had been reduced to rubble.

  As Victoria and Beech approached number twenty-seven, Victoria pointed out that Sir Arnold was approaching his chambers from the opposite direction. They met outside the front door. Beech flashed his warrant card and a slightly irritated Sir Arnold bade them enter. He knew what they were here for and he was not of a mind to play ball—a frame of mind he made perfectly clear as soon as they sat down in his rooms.

  “I am quite sure that you are here to ask me about the contents of Lady Harriet’s will,” Sir Arnold said briskly, “but I am equally sure that I will not breach a client’s expectation of confidentiality.”

  Beech sighed but summoned a small, determined smile.

  “Sir Arnold,” he began, “I know that many solicitors have a poor opinion of the police force …”

  Sir Arnold drew his brows together as if to prepare himself for a lecture.

  “… but,” Beech continued, “in this case, we are valiantly trying to prove your client’s innocence. I, myself, was the first person to interview her after the murder occurred and I can testify that she was in tremendous pain and unable to move. Doctor Allardyce, whom I believe you met in the Women’s Hospital, attended Lady Harriet in her home, where she began to hemorrhage internally and it was only the presence of Doctor Allardyce that saved her life. She also is willing to testify that Lady Harriet would have been unable to physically commit the murder of her husband. Mrs Ellingham here—” Victoria flashed Sir Arnold a brief smile “—took down Lady Harriet’s confession.” Beech noticed the disapproving look that crossed Sir Arnold’s face and he hastily added, “at Lady Harriet’s insistence, I may add, as she thought she was about to die, and she is also of the opinion that Lady Harriet’s confession is an attempt to protect someone. So,” Beech concluded, “all in all, we will do our utmost to prevent your client from ever being accused of a murder that she did not commit but we need to see the will and ascertain whether she may have said anything that may give us a clue and enable us to put the real perpetrator behind bars.”

  Beech sat back and prayed that Sir Arnold would see sense. There was a moment of silence, then Sir Arnold stirred. He rose and opened a wooden cabinet, retrieved some documents and sat down again, placing the documents on the desk. He then looked at Victoria and said pointedly, “I wonder if I might have your opinion on a painting in my clerk’s office, Mrs Ellingham? A lady of your refinement might be able to pronounce upon its origins, don’t you think?”

  Victoria looked confused, but then Beech said firmly, “I think you should have a look, Mrs Ellingham. I believe you may be able to help Sir Arnold.”

  She realized that she was being asked to leave the room with Sir Arnold on a pretext, so that Beech could look at the documents on the desk.

  “Of course, Sir Arnold,” she said affably, “it would be a pleasure.” So the elderly solicitor, with a nod of understanding to Beech, led the way into the next room, closing the door firmly behind them, leaving Beech to glean what information he could from the last Will and Testament of Lady Harriet Murcheson.

  CHAPTER 15

  It was time for snacks and comparing notes back at the house in Mayfair. Mrs Beddowes set to work cutting bread, ham, tongue, cheese, and everyone in the library fell on the resulting sandwiches as though they had not eaten for many days. Caroline and Beech were tipping over into extreme fatigue but Billy and Tollman were raring to go.

  “My aunt said that they overheard Dodds on the telephone, asking someone to bring money at eight o’clock tonight to the Queen’s Head,” confirmed Billy, helping himself to more pickles. “And it must be the Queen’s Head on Piccadilly, because Esme said Dodds was always talking about going up Piccadilly on his days off.”

  “I know it well,” said Tollman, to no one’s surprise. “Since the war started it has been the haunt of servicemen from all over the world. Usually packed by eight o’clock in the evening.”

  Beech decided that Billy and Tollman should spend the evening at the public house, in order to intercept Dodds.

  “I have telephoned Barnardo’s,” Caroline said wearily, her half-eaten sandwich on a plate signaling to everyone that she was too tired to eat. “Polly hasn’t turned up there yet but they have assured me that they will keep her there and telephone us the moment she arrives.”

  Beech nodded. “Good. Caroline, you must go to bed at once. You look completely done in.”

  For once, Caroline offered no resistance, mumbled her apologies to the assembly and left to catch some much-needed sleep.

  “That is one very hard-working lady,” said Tollman quietly, after Caroline had left. Then he proceeded to recount the full details of their visit to Madame Perkins’ establishment in Pimlico. “Doctor Allardyce discovered that Madame offers her clients the same packages of heroin as we found among Lord Murcheson’s effects. Folded in the same way, and apparently delivered by Dodds, in quantity, once a month.”

  “Supplied to him by whom?” asked Beech.

  Tollman shook his head. “Madame wouldn’t say but I’m willing to bet it’s the doctor who ‘looks after’ her girls. She says that he is a top-notch doctor in Harley Street with an elite client list. Mind you,” he added scornfully, “Maisie Perkins is away with the fairies, so it wouldn’t surprise me if she has persuaded herself that that is the case and her doctor is really some grubby little back-street abortionist.”

  “Or,” suggested Victoria, “he could be the doctor who was looking after Lord Murcheson?”

  “That’s a possibility,” Beech replied. “We haven’t interviewed him yet and I would prefer Caroline to be present when we do, so it will have to wait until tomorrow now.”

  “Did you find out anything at the solicitors, sir?” asked Tollman.

  “Not really,” said Beech despondently. “Lady Harriet had left a whopping amount in trust for Polly, to be paid to her in sums each year of two hundred pounds.”

  Billy whistled appreciatively. “That’s more than I earn a year! A sum like that could set a young girl up for life!”

  “Quite,” said Beech. “So I think one could take that as an expression of Lady Harriet’s gratitude. There was one other thing,” he added, “Lady Harriet had left a sum of two hundred and fifty pounds to George Dodds.” Everyone looked surprised as Beech consulted his notes and read them out loud. “On the understanding that he must never speak of the events of the night of my husband’s death and must sign a contract to that effect.”

>   “It strikes me, sir,” Tollman observed, “that Her Ladyship believes that Dodds knows that Polly killed Lord Murcheson and she wishes him to keep his secret in return for the money.”

  “I am of the same opinion,” Beech agreed. “And we cannot move any further along with this case until we speak to either Dodds or Polly.”

  “Hopefully, we shall have Dodds before the end of the day,” said Tollman, then he asked, “Billy? Have you still got your army uniform? Your khakis, I mean, not your dress uniform?”

  Billy nodded. “I have, Mr Tollman. My original uniform got cut off me in hospital, but they gave me a new one to travel home in. It’s at the station house.”

  “Then you must go and get kitted up, lad! And I must go back to Clapham and put on my Sunday clothes. Tonight we shall be a soldier and his old dad, out for a drink before you get shipped off.” Tollman seemed to be relishing the thought of an undercover operation.

  “Do you want some backup, Tollman?” offered Beech. “This Dodds seems to be a nasty piece of work.”

  Tollman shook his head. “No, sir. I might sign out a handgun from the Yard, if you would authorize it. Otherwise, I’m sure that Billy can bring Mr Dodds under control.”

  “I shall telephone straight away.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Tollman and Billy departed, arranging to meet up at a public house in Panton Street and from there they would move on to the Queen’s Head at Piccadilly.

  After they left, Lady Maud stuck her head around the door and said, “I’ve just passed Caroline’s room and the poor girl has fallen asleep, fully clothed, half off and half on the bed. She must have been exhausted!”

  “As am I,” murmured Beech, beginning to feel very light-headed.

  “Why don’t you stay here tonight, my boy?” said Lady Maud. “You’ve been on your feet for nearly twenty-four hours, without sleep. At least take a nap on Billy’s camp beds before you set off for your home.”

  Beech agreed that a nap would be a sensible idea but added that, before he did so, he wanted to talk to both of them about something.