“Oh, miss! What a treat. A lady working for a newspaper. Are they still hiring?”
Mrs Thompson shot her a warning look. “Now don’t bother the ladies with your silly questions, Vicky.”
“Oh, it’s no bother at all,” smiled Poppy. “What kind of job did you have in mind?”
“Well, I can read and write, and wouldn’t mind doing a bit of office work. They had me in a factory in the war, but I reckon I could do better than that. I can –”
“That’s enough, girl.” Mr Thompson scowled at his daughter and she lowered her eyes. He grunted his approval and then turned to his unwelcome guests. “Let’s get to it, then. What’s this you’ve got to say about my boy?”
Mrs Thompson’s hand went to her throat. “They’re here about Billy Junior?”
“That they are. They’ve got some information for us. Haven’t you?”
Poppy smiled sympathetically at Mrs Thompson. “We have. As I explained to your husband outside, I have just returned from Paris. When I was there I met a lady who had worked as a nurse in Flanders in 1915. The year I believe your son was killed.”
“That’s right. May Day, it was. In Ypres.” She pronounced it Eeps.
“Well, this lady was working with Madame Curie. You’ve heard of her?”
“The famous lady scientist,” contributed Vicky.
“That’s right. She is a famous scientist. But during the war, she served on the front with her daughter and some other brave women – including Sophie Blackburn, the lady I met in Paris. They took around X-ray machines to field hospitals. They are these new-fangled machines that can take pictures of the inside of our bodies.”
Poppy hoped she didn’t sound too patronizing, but the Thompsons didn’t seem to be offended, and if they were, they were too interested to hear how this all connected with Billy Junior to care. Poppy continued.
“They sometimes worked with the Red Cross. And it was on one of those occasions that Miss Blackburn came across your son and his unit after they had come under enemy fire.”
Mrs Thompson was holding back her tears. “And – and was he still alive?”
“He was,” said Poppy softly.
“How did she know who he was?” asked Mr Thompson, his gruffness disguising the catch in his voice.
“Sophie Blackburn was one of the Chelsea Six.”
The Thompsons did not register any understanding.
“They were a group of women who were members of the Women’s Social and Political Union.”
“Ooooh, the suffragettes!” peeped Vicky.
“Yes, they were suffragettes. And they met at 137 King’s Road, Chelsea, where I believe you, Mr Thompson, have cleaned the windows for the last few years.”
“The last ten years,” said Mr Thompson. “I always thought there was something funny going on at that house.”
Poppy let that pass. “Well, this lady, Sophie Blackburn, recognized your son. Or he recognized her; I’m not sure which. Either way, they realized that they knew each other, however tenuously, from back home. And I suppose when you’re dying” – she looked apologetically at each member of the family – “it’s a comfort to have some sort of connection.” Poppy let them absorb this information before she continued.
“Tell them about Alfie,” Delilah whispered. Poppy smiled tightly, hoping to communicate that she had not forgotten and was just allowing the family time to digest the information they already had. Again, she drew on her experience of visiting families with her parents, including bereaved families, and knew that these situations had to be handled very delicately. Finally, when she thought they were ready, she continued.
“I also mentioned to Mr Thompson that this had something to do with Viscount Alfie Dorchester. Do you know who that is?”
Mrs Thompson and Vicky nodded. Mr Thompson grunted. “Captain Dorchester was how we knew him. Didn’t even come to see us after we got the news.”
“That’s because he was in hospital,” said Mrs Thompson.
“He got out soon enough. Not like our Billy. Not like those other boys.”
“That’s right,” said Poppy. “He had relatively minor injuries.”
“He won the Victoria Cross, didn’t he? He must have been very brave. Trying to save our Billy.” Vicky’s wide eyes were filling with tears.
“Well” – Poppy cleared her throat – “apparently not. Not according to your brother.”
The Thompsons sat bolt upright as though they were one body. “What do you mean?” asked Mr Thompson, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
Poppy braced herself and said, “According to Billy, Alfie – Captain Dorchester – had told them to storm the machine-gun nest even though the men told him they didn’t stand a chance. He… he threatened to shoot each of them for cowardice if they didn’t. So they obeyed. And Alfie – Captain Dorchester – remained behind.”
Mrs Thompson’s hand went to her throat again. Poppy thought she might faint, but she didn’t.
“So, are you telling us that Dorchester knowingly sent those boys to their death?”
“Well, I can’t say for sure that it was ‘knowingly’ – perhaps he just didn’t think it through properly – but whatever his understanding of the matter, the men knew it would be a suicide mission.”
“And they went anyway.” It was Delilah and she was openly crying. Poppy passed her a handkerchief, hoping she would pull herself together.
“Yes, they went anyway. They didn’t have a choice. Alfie said he would shoot them if they didn’t. Or at least have them up on charges of disobeying a direct order. They would have faced a firing squad.”
“The bastard!” Mr Thompson’s face was a mask of fury.
“B-but – he was shot too, wasn’t he? He must have gone with them.”
“Not according to your brother, Vicky, and not according to some evidence Sophie found.”
“What evidence?” asked Mr Thompson.
“The bullet taken from Alfie’s shoulder was British issue. From an officer’s revolver. The same revolver Alfie used. Sophie believes he shot himself to pretend he had been in on the action too. That’s what he told the VC committee. And that’s what they believed.”
“But he didn’t. He watched while my little Billy was killed. Him and all those other poor boys.”
“That’s what we believe, Mrs Thompson, yes.”
“We’ll go to the police!”
“The police can’t do anything, woman; it’s a military matter,” Mr Thompson said.
“Then we’ll go to the army. There must be someone we can tell. Will you go with us, miss? Tell them what you know?”
Poppy nodded. “I will. Well, actually, my editor will – and his legal team. But first we have to get some more evidence.”
“The bullet?”
“No, something else. Something relating to another part of the investigation. But they’re connected and we can’t go to print without it. And if we can’t go to print we won’t have any influence over the authorities to force them to do something about Alfie. So that’s why we are here, apart from telling you about what we believe really happened to your son. We need your help, Mr Thompson. You see, this morning, when you lent me your ladder to climb up to Mrs Wilson’s window, it gave me an idea. Do you know Willow Park asylum in Battersea?”
“I do. I clean their windows. In fact, I delivered a note from there to someone at your newspaper about ten days ago.”
Poppy blinked rapidly as the enormity of the coincidence, or perhaps divine intervention, dawned on her.
“So you’re the one she gave it to…”
“The lady? I don’t know her name. But it was someone who used to be at 137 King’s Road. I recognized her. Just like my Billy recognized that other lady. But I’m not sure if she realized who I was. We didn’t speak, you see. She just gave me the note. Did you get it?”
“We did. Thank you.” She thought for a moment of telling him about Bert and Sophie and how the whole investigation began, but decid
ed against it. Rollo had used the phrase “need-to-know basis” in relation to good journalistic practice, so instead she asked: “Are you the regular window cleaner at Willow Park?”
“I am.”
“Well, Mr Thompson, that could prove very useful. Very useful indeed.”
CHAPTER 29
It was six o’clock the next morning and Delilah and Poppy sat in Adam’s motorcar outside the south gate of Battersea Park. Delilah yawned.
“I’m going to look like hell for rehearsals. If I can get there in time. Do you think we’ll be finished by eight?”
“I hope so,” said Poppy and sipped at her coffee from the thermos flask mug. “It’s a good job you got Adam to change his mind about the motor, though, or we wouldn’t have made it on time. Was he furious about it last night?”
“Livid,” Delilah grinned cheekily, “but I soon calmed him down.”
“And he’ll cover for you if you’re late at the theatre?”
“That’s what he said.”
“The man’s a gem.”
Delilah threw up her hands in glee, nearly knocking Poppy’s coffee all over her. “I know. And he’s asked me to go to Monte Carlo with him. After the run.”
“I thought you were going to be in The Cherry Orchard after that?”
“Hopefully. Mr Stanislavski hasn’t put up the cast list yet. And Adam might be in it too. He’s auditioning for Peter Trofimov.”
Poppy looked puzzled.
“Anya’s boyfriend. Oh, won’t that be fun!”
“Not much time for Monte Carlo then.”
“Oh, I’m sure we can squeeze in a bit of ‘research time’. Stanislavski always encourages his actors to inhabit their roles, if you know what I mean.” She winked shamelessly.
Poppy laughed. If only her relationship with Daniel was as simple. Not that they had a relationship, of course… but if they had… No, she was not going to think about it. She smiled at Delilah as the dark-haired girl pouted her lips and fluffed up her bob in the rearview mirror. She’d never met anyone as free-spirited as Delilah. But she wondered if the girl’s laissez-faire approach to life was masking something deeper. Here she was, poised to spring the woman who had last seen her mother alive, and she was mooning over a boy and dreaming of Monte Carlo. Poppy hoped she would be able to count on Delilah if things got out of hand. What they were about to do was illegal and dangerous. There was no room for flippancy.
But then she remembered the raw Delilah she had glimpsed in the hospital room when she spoke about her mother. Yes, there was steel there. Just like Aunt Dot.
Aunt Dot. Poppy had lain awake most of the previous night thinking about her. Could she really be the Chelsea Six mole like Frank Wilson believed? It was so hard to countenance. Aunt Dot was fiercely loyal to her friends, family and the cause. And if she had been in Dorchester’s pay in 1910 – as the letter Frank had shown her suggested – surely the events of Bloody Friday that year, which left her crippled, would have changed that. How could she have continued working for the man who was behind her accident and the death of her friend? That, of course, was assuming she was the mole in the first place. Why would she have done it? What could she have possibly hoped to gain?
Poppy thought of her aunt’s character – so much like that of Delilah. They were both actresses, used to playing roles. Perhaps Dot had just been playing at being a suffragist all along. But why? For fun? For the challenge? No, Poppy couldn’t accept that. She remembered her aunt’s fury the day she had been insulted at the Oxford Street stationer’s. Dot believed in the rights of women. There had to be another explanation…
Perhaps, like the spy novels her brother had been so fond of reading, Aunt Dot had been a double agent, giving Dorchester false information… but the information hadn’t been false. What had Frank said? Easling was waiting for Gloria and Elizabeth when they came out of Lord’s. Why would Dot tell Dorchester that, even if she was playing a double agent? That information wasn’t harmless. It had real, and ultimately fatal, consequences. But Dot couldn’t have known that at the time… or could she? No, of course not.
Nonetheless, Poppy couldn’t get the idea of role play out of her mind. She remembered something she had seen at the Midsummer rehearsal with Robert Atkins. As a warm-up exercise the director had got the cast to swap roles for a while. But not just any roles. Each actor had to swap roles with their direct antagonist – the person they were most in conflict with in the play. He said it was so that they could feel what their enemy felt. And that that would help them understand their own role better. Could this have been what Dot was doing? Could she have been “playing” the role of her enemy? To get inside his mind. To see how he thought. It was certainly possible. But she would only know when she had had a chance to speak to Aunt Dot personally. If it hadn’t been for the flu she would have done so already.
There was a bang on Delilah’s window. The girls jumped in fright. Looking at them in the dim morning light was a man wearing a bowler hat: Detective Chief Inspector Richard Easling. He motioned for Delilah to roll down her window.
“Morning, ladies. Miss Marconi. Miss Denby. Queer spot for breakfast.”
“Morning, inspector. Just about to have a stroll in the park before work. Good for the constitution!” Delilah breezed.
“Walk in Battersea Park often, do you? No parks in Chelsea?”
“I work on this side of the river.”
“There are parks in Waterloo.”
“Ah, but none so lovely as this!” Delilah flashed him her most charming smile. He was unmoved.
“Get yourselves along then. There’s a law against loitering.”
This irked Poppy. How dare this corrupt copper lecture them about the law! “Actually, I was just showing my friend here the spot where I was recently run down. She couldn’t believe that nothing had yet been done about it. Could you, Delilah?”
“No, Poppy, I couldn’t. And I’m sure that’s why the inspector himself is here – to do further investigations. Isn’t that right, inspector?” She smiled again and this time added in some batting of eyelids. “I’m sure an officer of your calibre will not leave a stone unturned.”
Flirtation won’t work with this one, Poppy wanted to say to her.
But surprisingly Easling smiled back. “No harm done, ladies. But best you don’t hang around here too long. There’ve been some muggings in the park – that’s why I’m here.”
Nothing to do with making sure no one gets near Elizabeth Dorchester before she is transferred to Wales this morning, then?
But before Poppy could formulate a more appropriate reply, a horse-drawn wagon trundled past. The driver looked curiously at the policeman and the two ladies in the motorcar.
Oh, please don’t stop, Mr Thompson. Don’t stop.
And to the girls’ relief, he didn’t. But where he was going they had no idea. The arrangement had been to meet at the south gate of the park. Damn Easling!
“I’ll give you a hand with the engine then.” Easling reached out his hand, clearly expecting to receive the crank lever.
Delilah smiled tightly, then reached behind her seat and gave it to him. As he bent down in front of the car she whispered to Poppy, “What are we going to do now?”
“Drive around the park. Follow Mr Thompson. We’ll catch up with him.”
A few cranks later and the engine roared into life. Delilah waved her thanks. Poppy glared. Easling doffed his hat.
A few minutes later, they were out of sight of the police officer and came across Mr Thompson and Bess waiting for them near a line of weeping willows.
“Better just slow down and let me out,” said Poppy. “Don’t stop the engine. This time of the morning, sound will travel across the pond. He might be listening to see if we’ve really gone.”
“But how will I meet up with you again?”
“Go to your flat after rehearsal. I think it’ll be better if I do this on my own. You at rehearsal will give us an alibi if Easling decides to check up on us.
”
“Are you sure, Poppy? It could be dangerous.”
“It’ll be no less dangerous with you with me. Besides, I’ve got Mr Thompson.”
Delilah reluctantly agreed and slowed down enough for Poppy to jump out of the motorcar without risking injury. Then she pressed down on the accelerator and drove off. Hopefully if Easling had been listening – or if he had guards posted on Chelsea, Albert or Battersea Bridges – it would be noted that the black Model T Ford, driven by the pretty young lady, had indeed left the Battersea area as requested. And hopefully none of them would look too closely to see there was no passenger beside her. It was a flimsy cover, Poppy knew, but the best she could come up with on the hoof.
With Delilah roaring off into the distance, Poppy checked to see that there were no other surprises lurking in the bushes before approaching Mr Thompson. Bess snorted a greeting.
“I was worried you were going to stop there, Mr Thompson.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, miss. That’s Tricky Ricky Easling, ain’t it? Bent as a butcher’s hook, that one. Is Miss Marconi not joining us?”
“No, she’s creating a diversion.”
Mr Thompson raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. He got down from the wagon and pulled back the tarpaulin. “As we planned then?”
“Yes, Mr Thompson. As we planned.”
Poppy took Mr Thompson’s hand as he helped her climb into the back of the wagon. She lay down and made herself as comfortable as she could while he refastened the tarpaulin.
“You’re here early, Bill.”
“That I am, Georgie boy. Didn’t get everything done the last time, if you remember.”
“If you say so.”
“So thought I’d drop by and finish them off early before me next job. Don’t want Matron saying I’m not earning me keep now, do I?”
“That you don’t, Bill; that you don’t.”
The Jazz Files Page 22
