She really didn’t know what she was looking for, so if something was out of place, she wouldn’t know. She turned out the light and closed the door. Back in the main office she wondered which desk was Daniel’s. It was impossible to tell. Some desks had framed photographs of family members – wives and children, she assumed – some didn’t. Some desks were tidy, others messy. She didn’t know Daniel well enough to know which one his might have been. She pulled herself up: Stop thinking about Daniel. But then a thought occurred to her. Daniel had said he was first out of the department when he heard Mavis scream. She walked towards the doors, as if retracing his steps, and pushed them open. But what if he hadn’t come out of the doors and had been on the landing already? What if… Good heavens, what was she thinking? Impossible! And yet… and yet… what did she really know about Daniel?
She let the doors swing shut again and paced up and down on the landing. Rollo had suggested that perhaps he was not to be trusted with the information about the ledger. Why not? What possible connection could he have to the story? Well, for one thing he had a history with Alfie Dorchester. They had been in the same regiment and there was no love lost between them. What was it that Daniel knew about Alfie that made him question his version of events on the day he won the Victoria Cross? And how had he been injured and why had it led to an early discharge? And finally, why was he so evasive about it all? There was a lot she didn’t know about Daniel Rokeby and his relationship with Alfie. Could Bert have uncovered something? All the more reason to take another look at his files.
The editorial office was two floors up. She thought of taking the stairs, but her aching body prompted her back into the lift. She went in and pressed the button for the fourth floor. However, on the way up it stopped at the third floor – someone must have pressed the button. But no one opened the gate to come in. Curious, she pushed the gate open herself and had a look out. There was no one on the landing and the doors to the morgue remained firmly shut. She shrugged and went back into the lift and pushed the button again for the fourth floor.
One floor up she stepped out onto the landing. She suddenly thought that whoever had pushed the button for the lift on the third floor might have changed their mind and decided to take the stairs instead. She quickly looked down the stairwell, but it was empty. Perhaps they were up here already… She looked at the doors to the editorial department, her throat tightening, her palms sweating, and considered backing down and returning tomorrow when more people were in the building. Rollo might be back by then and she could talk it all through with him. But Rollo might still be sick, and she was here now… She pushed open the doors.
Inside, she was relieved to see no one was there. Perhaps the person on the third floor – possibly Ivan – had gone down the stairs. Yes, that made perfect sense. Ivan Molanov had been working a little late and was now going home. He might have seen that the lift was going up and didn’t want to waste time going up before he went down, so had simply taken the stairs. She was sure that’s what must have happened; she would confirm it with him in the morning. She looked around again to check she really was alone and went to Bert’s desk. She searched through the piles of papers, sandwich wrappers and empty coffee cups, but could not find any notebooks or files. Rollo must have taken them. Yes, that would make sense. Hadn’t he said that Easling wanted to have a look at Bert’s files? Of course the editor would have taken them.
She walked across the newsroom and tried the door to Rollo’s office. It was locked. However, on the day Rollo was out arranging Bert’s funeral and had left her alone to sort out his office, he had given her a key – which she was to return to him when she had finished. That was the same day she had gone to the asylum; the same day she had been knocked down and taken to hospital… She had not had a chance to return the key! She scratched around in her satchel and found it, still attached to the house keys for 137 King’s Road.
To the casual observer, Rollo’s office was a warzone. However, in the hours she had spent there she had come to realize that despite the apparent chaos there was a loose filing system and she had an idea of where to look for Bert’s files. A few minutes later she had located them.
She cleared an oasis on Rollo’s desk, turned on the desk lamp and started to read. It didn’t take her long to realize that Rollo had been right: there was nothing more there than she already knew and which had been condensed into the summary file he had given her the day she went to interview Melvyn Dorchester. There was also very little on Elizabeth Dorchester, but she did find a note in red pencil: “See EDJF for more” – see Elizabeth Dorchester Jazz File for more? Ah, but that was the file that was missing. Would that have given her any more clues as to who the Chelsea Six mole was? Or in fact if there even was a mole? Why had Bert been trying to gain access to Elizabeth in the days before his death? What did he think she knew that he didn’t? And how, if at all, was this connected with his death?
Her head throbbed. She lay down for a moment with her forehead on her arms, stretching out her neck and lower back. She should probably get home. If Grace and Dot had telephoned the hospital to see if they could visit they would know by now that she had already been discharged and would be worried as to where she was.
She sat back up. But as she did, she realized something was stuck to the inside of her arm: an envelope smeared with what looked like the remains of one of Bert’s jam sandwiches. She peeled it off. It was postmarked Paris and addressed to Bert at The Globe. She opened it and read:
17th of May, 1920
Dearest Bert,
I’m sure it will come as a surprise that I am contacting you again after all these years. I hope it is not too unwelcome. I realize that things were not well between us the last time I saw you, and for that I am deeply sorry. As you know, in 1913 I became involved in things for which I am deeply ashamed and I thank you for keeping your silence about it all these years. It was more than I deserve.
However, I feel it is time to make it up to you. I cannot give you specific details lest I personally implicate myself and open myself up to criminal charges, but I can tell you that you should look more carefully at the recent deal between the Radium Institute and our old friend Melvyn Dorchester. I’m sure a journalist of your calibre will soon find the evidence you need. I hope this goes some way towards making up for what I did in 1913 – of which, I say again, I am deeply ashamed. I hope you find it in your heart to leave my name out of your story when it is finally published.
Sincerely,
Sophie Blackburn
Poppy was stunned. She reread the letter, then read it again. Was this evidence that Sophie Blackburn was the mole? Was the thing of which she was so deeply ashamed the murder of Gloria Marconi? And had Bert known about it back in 1913? Why had he not reported it? And now that it had resurfaced, would he really have been prepared to keep her name out of it for the sake of a scoop about Melvyn Dorchester and the Radium Institute deal? Perhaps he hadn’t been. Perhaps that’s why he was trying to see Elizabeth to find out what had really happened back in 1913. Perhaps that’s why he was killed…
A shadow appeared in the frosted glass pane of Rollo’s door. Poppy looked up. It was too tall for Rollo. Poppy quickly slipped the letter into her satchel, slung it over her shoulder and looked for a place to hide. But there was no point. The light was on and whoever was outside would have already seen her through the glass pane. She stood up and waited. The doorknob turned.
“What are you doing here?” The skinny arts editor stood in the doorway striking a melodramatic pose with an accusatory finger pointed at her.
“I am Mr Rolandson’s assistant. I’m picking up some files to take to him at home. He’s got the flu.” She closed Bert’s file and slipped it into her satchel.
Lionel Saunders sneered. “A likely story. I thought you were still in the hospital.”
“They discharged me this afternoon.”
“And the first thing you did was come here and rifle through Rollo’s files. Who are you
working for, Miss Denby? The WSPU, or” – his eyes widened – “The Courier? That’s it! You work for The Courier. They’re setting a honey trap.”
“A honey trap? I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Oh, don’t play the innocent with me, missy. That outfit you wore the other night proves otherwise. And now here you are in a foxy little nurse’s uniform –”
Drat! Poppy had forgotten she was still in costume.
“Well, you won’t get far seducing me. Rollo, on the other hand, is a sucker for anything in a skirt, and Danny’s out to find a replacement.”
“A replacement? What on earth do you mean?” She held up her hand. “Actually, I don’t want to know. I’m tired, Mr Saunders, and I want to get home. I’ll drop this over at Rollo’s on the way back.”
Lionel strode towards her, holding out his hand. “Hand it over.”
“What?”
“Bert’s file.”
“I… well… I – hang on. How do you know it’s Bert’s file?”
There was a fleeting look of panic on Lionel’s face before he regained his composure, but it was enough for Poppy. She straightened her shoulders and put a protective hand on the satchel.
“Excuse me, Mr Saunders, I’m leaving. And I’m taking this with me – as per Rollo’s request. You can ring him if you like.” She indicated the telephone. “Or perhaps I should. I’ll tell him you’re here, harassing me.” She reached out to take the phone by the neck.
Lionel grabbed it from her. She refused to let go. They grappled for a moment, then she let go, taking him by surprise, and he fell backwards, knocking over one of Rollo’s stacks of files. The pile, which nearly reached the ceiling, toppled onto him.
She wondered for a moment if he was hurt, but judging by all of the swearing coming from under the avalanche, he was fine. She took her chance and ran.
CHAPTER 19
Poppy did not stop running until she was well down Fleet Street. She didn’t stop when the printers called to her and she didn’t stop when she nearly ran into a group of choirboys heading to Temple Church for Friday night choir practice. She only stopped when the pain in her ribs was so acute she could hardly breathe.
She pulled up in the doorway of a pub and took in sharp, painful breaths, looking down the street to see if Lionel was following her. If he was, she planned to go into the pub and ask for help. A damsel in distress in a nurse’s uniform was sure to illicit sympathy from the male clientele. But Lionel was nowhere in sight. She had heard him running after her down the four flights at The Globe, but by the time she got through the basement she could no longer hear him. And when she got onto the street she was too scared to look back.
As her breathing evened out she realized she felt sick. Physically sick. She leaned her forehead against the stone lintel and closed her eyes until the feeling passed.
“Are you all right, miss?” Two men and a woman were looking at her, concerned.
“I’m feeling a little ill.”
“Do you want a glass of water?”
“No, thank you. But can you call me a taxi?”
“Of course.”
Poppy sank down on the step. The woman sat beside her while one of the men hailed a taxi.
“Are you sure you’re all right to travel, love?” asked the woman.
“Yes, thank you,” said Poppy, who could think only of her bed.
Half an hour later, Poppy was shakily paying the taxi driver outside 137 King’s Road. Aunt Dot and Grace were waiting for her in the hall, beside themselves with worry. They demanded to know where she’d been, why she hadn’t called, if she was all right – and why on earth she was wearing a nurse’s uniform! Poppy waved them off and said she was sorry about everything and she would tell them all about it in the morning. But for now she was going to bed. Goodnight.
The next morning Aunt Dot and Grace brought Poppy breakfast in bed. Poppy had already decided that she couldn’t tell them much – there was too much up in the air and she wanted to thrash it out with Rollo first – but she had to tell them something. So as she munched on her toast and marmalade she told them a series of half-truths. She had been unexpectedly released from hospital. Her own clothes had somehow got lost in the hospital laundry, so she’d borrowed a nurse’s uniform. Delilah had come to pick her up after she’d called home and discovered they weren’t there. But then Delilah’s motorcar had broken down – she made a quick mental note that she would need to square this with Delilah in case Dot asked her – and then she had made her way back on public transport. There had been a traffic jam in central London (highly plausible, as everyone knew) and it had taken her hours to get home. She had not been able to telephone because she could not find a public booth. Dot seemed to take this at face value, but Grace gave her a curious look. Poppy sipped her tea.
And then Delilah arrived. Poppy cursed her timing. However, thanks to Dot’s effusive greeting of “Delilah, darling! Thank you so much for picking Poppy up yesterday. How’s the motor by the way? Call our mechanic – he’s marvellous, he’ll have it fixed in no time”, coupled with a warning look from Poppy, the young actress quickly picked up the script.
“Thank you, Dot, but my friend – the one I borrowed it from – has already got it sorted.”
“I didn’t know you drove,” observed Grace drily.
“Well, I’m just learning. Apparently I flooded the engine. Silly, silly me. I’m just sorry Poppy had to get back using public transport.”
Ah yes, thought Poppy. She doesn’t know that I didn’t come straight home. Best leave it like that.
“Well, it did take it out of her,” said Dot. “A day in bed, methinks. Are you staying for breakfast, Delilah? Or you could come over later for lunch. I’m sure Poppy would enjoy the company.”
“I’d love to, Dot, but Robert went through the roof yesterday when I missed my rehearsal. So I’ve got to get in extra early today and stay extra late. I’ll come and see you as soon as I can, Poppy.” She gave the blonde girl a knowing look. “Rest up.”
So Poppy did. Until about eleven when Grace came to tell her that she and Dot were going to lunch with Marjorie Reynolds and they wouldn’t be back until later that afternoon.
“Is there anything you need?”
“No, thank you, Grace. I’m feeling much better. I think I’ll get up and make a few phone calls, if that’s all right.”
“Of course.” Grace kissed her on the forehead.
Poppy was taken aback. Grace was not one for physical affection. The older woman seemed to have surprised herself too. “We were worried about you, Poppy. Please don’t do anything silly.”
“I won’t, Grace,” said Poppy. But even as she said it she knew it was a promise she would soon break.
The first phone call Poppy made was to The Globe. She knew that Mavis would be on reception until one o’clock, because the older lady had told her Saturday morning was the busiest time for people coming in to buy classified advertising: items for sale, baby announcements, funeral arrangements, lonely hearts… She asked Mavis for two home telephone numbers: Rollo’s and Daniel’s. She wasn’t sure if Daniel had a telephone at home, but was pleased when Mavis told her he had. She felt terrible about accusing him of Bert’s death – if only in her mind – and now she was convinced that the mole at The Globe was Lionel Saunders, she wanted to apologize to him. Well, of course she couldn’t actually apologize, as that would require her admitting she’d suspected him in the first place, but it would settle things on her side if she at least spoke to him. She was worried too about how ill he might be with the flu, and of course there was the dinner invitation …
But before she rang Daniel she decided to catch up with Rollo. After a few rings a croaky voice answered: “Rolandson.”
After exchanging a few pleasantries and enquiring about each other’s health, Poppy filled Rollo in on the events of the last twenty-four hours.
“Lionel Saunders? Well, wadya know? But it fits. He’s always had contacts
in high society, which is why I kept him on when I took over, but obviously they go deeper than I thought.”
“Do you think he’s responsible for Bert’s death?”
She was answered by a hacking cough. “Sorry, Poppy.” Rollo cleared his throat. “Right. Lionel and Bert. I don’t honestly know. I can buy that he’s been snooping around for Dorchester – and he’s probably the one who took the Jazz File – but murder? I don’t know, Poppy. The man’s a weasel, but I don’t think he’d go that far.”
“But he might have.”
“Yes, he might have. Or it could have been someone else. Or no one at all.”
A shiver went down Poppy’s spine as she thought about what might have happened to her last night in Rollo’s office. “Even so, is there some way you can suspend him so he doesn’t come into work until this is all sorted?”
Rollo wheezed out a sigh. “I don’t know. Possibly. But there’s no evidence of anything.”
“But –”
“Hang on, I didn’t say I didn’t believe you, but the legal department will want more than that before they approve his suspension. He’ll be lawyered-up, suing us for unfair dismissal in no time. And that can get expensive…”
The Jazz Files Page 15
