Dolly went back into the house, slightly crushed by his lack of interest in her marriage, and propped the letter behind the clock on the narrow mantelpiece. The other letter was addressed to Sidney and looked like a bill of some kind. Her mother dreaded bills, but presumably Sidney wouldn’t worry because he had family money and was rich.
‘PSD?’ she muttered. ‘Private Shop? No–o . . . Personal Service Delivery! Something like that. Anyway, what is in the attic?’ Dust usually, she thought. A ‘drop-off place’? She had a lot to learn. Moving towards the sink she put the plug in and added cold water and what was left in the kettle. She found a cloth and rubbed some soap into the water and frothed it up. She began to wash up because there was nothing else to do. She had put the violets on her bedroom window for Don to admire, and she would press them in a day or two. She would buy a scrap book and write things in it like the day the baby was born . . . or what happened when they went to Ramsgate for the day. Don had promised her the latter by way of a honeymoon, but not just yet because he was so busy at work.
She sighed. In her old life she would have been at work behind the counter in the bakery on the corner, chatting cheerfully to the familiar customers. Mrs Braggs coming in for her two sausage rolls for their lunch; Miss Warren from the end house buying a stale bun to toast for her tea; young Jimmy Stokes with a penny pocket money for an apricot jam tart. Dolly knew them all and served them with genuine pleasure.
Except on Saturdays, of course, when she and Mavis would have wandered round the market, eating toffee apples, or maybe buying a new ribbon for a hat, chatting with friends and exchanging their news. But now they were married Don had said he was a ‘man of means’ and she could give up work, what with the baby coming and everything, and he didn’t want her out with her girlfriends all the time, ‘tittle-tattling’ about her private life.
For a moment she felt lonely, mourning the passing of that part of her life. She was almost tempted to go in search of her friends, but reluctantly reminded herself how eager she had been for change. Her friends would envy her the fact that she now had a husband and would soon have a baby to care for. No, she decided. She must forgo the delights of the market and would wait in dutifully because her husband might come back sooner than later.
‘Skivvying!’ she whispered, but she was a married woman after all, and suppose her mother relented and decided to pop across and see how she was getting on? The kitchen looked a mess. Glancing round she saw that the floor was littered with crumbs and what looked like sawdust. Later on she would sweep up, she decided. Don would be pleasantly surprised when he came back.
Not a mile away Leonard Phipps was writing to his mother in far away Bedfordshire. He sat in his rented room over the bar in the Merry Monarch and pencilled the words into a large notebook supplied by the Metropolitan Police and intended to receive information on crimes. He didn’t think they would miss one or two pages.
. . . So you see, I shall be very comfortable in my new room with the Dayes and well fed in the evening (sixpence per hot dinner) and will sleep well on the bed, which has a good horsehair mattress.
Mrs Daye has promised a scuttle full of coal when the weather is cold and has sent for the sweep as she has found a few feathers in the grate and thinks a bird has nested in the chimney . . .
Leonard sharpened his pencil and continued.
Her husband, who is away on business a lot, seems a decent sort and made no bones about me having the room. Old Mr Meecham is very vague and several times called me Robert, but that is no problem, and little Adam seems a nice child and well behaved.
Work is going well – we hear plenty of gossip about the rest of London including that recent robbery by jewel thieves in London during which a man was knocked down. It seems he is not expected to survive so we may soon all be involved in a hunt for a killer! That would be useful experience.
So far, dearest mother, I have not stumbled into any ‘dens of vice’, nor have I been corrupted in any way!
I shall move in to my new room on Monday and will write to you again next week. Don’t worry about me. All is well. Yours truly, Lennie.
He tore the sheet from the notebook and folded it, then slipped it into an envelope and carefully addressed it. His widowed mother, country born and bred, had dreaded his move to London, but he had insisted that the move was his only chance of early promotion.
Already, he had seen more action on the beat in one day than he had in the village in a week. Gleefully, he counted them on the fingers of one hand – a street fight outside a pub in the morning, an accident involving a horse and cart and a motor car which resulted in broken headlamps, large-scale thefts of fruit from the Billingsgate market reported in the afternoon and a burglary from a church collection box discovered just before evensong.
At home in Bedfordshire he had spent most of his time on his bicycle, chasing groups of speeding cyclists. He grinned at the memories. He’d seen enough ‘scorchers’ to last him a lifetime and had put up with quite enough back answers from them.
Although he was now on foot he found his beat an exciting place, but he would always dilute it for his mother’s benefit. Murderous gangs would become rowdy groups, a raid on a local shop would become young thieves and a stolen horse would become a runaway animal. Nor would he mention the bullying Sergeant O’Malley, or the uniform which did not fit as well as it might so the back of the collar rubbed his neck. His mother had been born to worry, and he wanted to spare her the anxiety of thoughts of her precious son floundering in the well-reported wickedness of London streets. Life was never perfect, he told himself, and for the moment he was well satisfied with his lot.
That night, as the church clock struck midnight, John lay wide awake, his arm round his sleeping wife. Lydia was snoring faintly in a feminine way which always touched his heart. The moonlight revealed her hair, dishevelled on the pillow, and he knew that her often anxious face, now softened by sleep, would look much younger. Only a few years older than Dolly, he thought, with a deep feeling of guilt. Poor Dolly would be sleeping alone, the first of many such nights. He sighed. She would have to get used to it. At least he had given her the appearance of respectability she had craved.
Lydia stirred in her sleep and turned over and away from him without waking. He tucked himself round her sleeping form and wished that he had managed his life better. Women were such a trial – so tempting, so very needful. Knowing that a man loved them was never enough, somehow. At least he and Lydia were legally married – apart from the false name he had used. He had done that much for her, and he tried to take comfort from the thought.
At the time he had wanted a family, believing that was the way to put down roots; believing that he wanted to change his lifestyle; believing that with the right support he could become a better person. What a fool he had been, and how hopelessly naive to imagine that he and Sidney could rise above their beginnings. Not that they were without resources, but money wasn’t everything, and Lydia’s father had immediately known him for what he was. ‘A jumped up Jack’ was the phrase he had once used in an attempt to dissuade Lydia from marrying him. Although George Meecham had no idea of the extent of his son-in-law’s wrongdoings, he had recognized him for what he wasn’t. John Daye was not a decent man, and he was not the sort of man a father would approve of for a son-in-law.
If he, John, had a daughter of his own he would never allow her to associate with a man like him, but by the time George had got some measure of his son-in-law’s serious shortcomings the old man was becoming disorientated and unable to convince Lydia of her true predicament.
John sighed. The year was rushing past him. It was already May – outside, a more than frisky wind rushed through the newly green trees – and his life was still precarious. He wanted something to change, but he didn’t know how. He wanted to be a good husband and father, but in his line of business it was difficult. Falling for sweet little Dolly had made it worse, of course. He should have had more sense. A soft groan escaped him
. No right-minded thief could expect to enjoy a settled life, and he was no exception.
Listening to the gusts outside their window, he tried to go back to sleep but, as usual, his mind was too active, and he knew he would lie sleepless for hours, racked by regrets and full of doubts for the future.
Lydia sighed deeply and suddenly woke up and turned over. ‘Are you awake, John?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m glad you’re back. I always fear for you when you’re away. Father insists that you are sometimes in danger.’
‘I’m not. But if I were, I can take care of myself.’
‘Where were you this time?’
‘You’re not supposed to ask. I’ve explained.’
‘But if you give me a clue and I guess, then you haven’t really told me anything.’ She turned back towards him and tried to study his face in the light from the window.
‘It starts with E,’ he said wearily, knowing how persistent she could be.
‘England!’
‘No.’
‘Estonia.’
He shook his head. ‘Much nearer home.’
A long pause. ‘Ethiopia!’
‘Ethiopia? That’s not nearer home. Anyway, it’s not a country, it’s a town.’
‘Ethiopia is a town?’ she queried.
‘No! Where I’ve been to is a town!’ He tried to keep the exasperation from his voice.
‘I give up, then,’ she told him.
‘Aberdeen.’
Raising herself on one elbow she stared into his face, trying to make out his expression in the dim light. ‘Aberdeen? You said it started with E!’
‘Did I say Aberdeen?’ He cursed silently. He was getting careless. ‘Sorry, dearest. My mistake. I meant Edinburgh.’ He hugged her. ‘So you see I was never far away. You worry too much.’
‘Anyway, I said England!’
‘Edinburgh is in Scotland.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’
They lay silent for a while.
Lydia said, ‘I’m glad you agreed to let Mr Phipps stay here. I think it will be good for Father as well as Adam. Especially as he’s a policeman. He must be a very upright sort of man. Trustworthy, don’t you think? Maybe a trifle dull.’
‘I would hope so.’ He rolled his eyes, unseen. A policeman was the last person he would have chosen as a lodger, but when confronted with a fait accompli he had been unable to think fast enough. ‘And don’t you get any ideas about him, Lydia, or let him get ideas about you. I wouldn’t like to have to fight a duel over you – I might lose!’ He laughed, but there was a hollow ring to the words. He had fought before, in his youth, and had never lost.
‘Get ideas about Mr Phipps? Good heavens, no!’ Lydia kissed him. ‘I like my men exciting and mysterious, like you. Anyway, he’s probably promised to a young lady back home in Bedfordshire.’
Best place for a young lady, John thought wryly. Keep the women at arm’s-length. That’s what he himself should have done. He should have sent Dolly packing before things went too far, but the baby had complicated matters and she had threatened to throw herself off Blackfriars Bridge into the Thames if he deserted her. Now the best he could hope for was to keep the two women apart. So far he’d been rather good at that, but there was ‘many a slip between cup and lip’, as they said, and he worried about his brother. Sidney was hardly the brightest card in the pack, and expecting him to keep a secret – any secret – was fraught with risk. One day their luck would run out.
‘At least,’ she said sleepily, ‘we’ll be safe with a policeman in the house – if we were to be burgled or anything.’
‘That’s a comforting thought,’ he murmured. ‘Now go back to sleep, Lydia. It will be time to get up before we know it.’
‘Can you stay until Sunday? We could go to church together. I’d like that.’
And I could confess my sins, he thought, his amusement tinged with bitterness. ‘Sorry, dearest, but no. You know how much I hate all that singing and chanting. If I’m still here we’ll go to the Saturday Market instead, and I’ll buy you a new hat and a toy for Adam. Maybe a cigar for me.’
As she settled happily against him he drew in a deep breath. And never a thought for tomorrow, he reminded himself. In his view, tomorrows could not be trusted. He had always preferred to live for the moment and take his chances.
Next day Dolly’s sister Mavis arrived at number sixteen just as Dolly had finished her efforts in the kitchen and was admiring the results. The sink was empty of dirty plates, and the once grimy saucepan had been hung on a convenient hook on the wall. The kitchen table had been swept free of stale crumbs, and a variety of clothes, casually draped over the few chairs, had been banished to a row of hooks on the back of the door that led out on to the small yard in which a newly washed tea towel was drying in the wind.
When Dolly found her sister waiting on the doorstep she threw her arms around her and then, remembering her elevated status as a married woman, invited her in, apologizing as she led the way back to the kitchen for the fact that the wedding had been private.
Mavis, two years older than Dolly, was not easily mollified. With a dismissive shrug, she said, ‘Sounds as if I didn’t miss much. Ma says it was a miserable affair with no hymns and stuff.’
Mavis, shorter and with a well-rounded body, was less attractive than her sister, but had once had an admirer who subsequently abandoned her for someone younger. This unkind treatment had left its mark on her face by way of a disagreeable expression, though this was occasionally relieved by a smile which surprised people.
Dolly was trying to hide her hurt feelings. ‘It wasn’t miserable! It was sort of elegant. A very simple ceremony, but . . . touching.’ She led the way into the newly cleaned kitchen where Mavis remained standing, glancing round without comment. Dolly ploughed on with her defence of the wedding. ‘I sometimes think too many people spoil things.’
‘No, they don’t. I shall invite lots of people to my wedding.’
Dolly, recognizing a hint of ‘sour grapes’, bit back an obvious rejoinder.
Mavis was now frowning. Dolly rushed to defend her kitchen. ‘Just big enough,’ she said. ‘Like ours back home. Those big kitchens people have – you’d get worn out rushing round in them. This is convenient.’ She swallowed. ‘So is Ma still mad at me?’
‘You know Ma! She likes to bear a grudge, but she’ll be all right when the baby comes. She’s always wanted to be a grandmother.’ Mavis stood in front of the shelves, which held a motley assortment of crockery, and came across the letter which the postman had insisted on delivering. Taking it down, she stared at the address. ‘PSD Third Floor. What’s that then?’
‘I dunno.’
‘You should. You live here.’
‘Only since yesterday. The third floor must be some sort of attic. A sort of office, I suppose.’
‘Who’s Mr John Daye?’ She held the envelope up to the light, squinting, trying to glimpse a shape of the contents.
‘Don’t know. Don’t care.’ Dolly was becoming irritated. She wanted her sister to be impressed, to envy her her married state – not to ask stupid questions. To change the subject she said, ‘Don’s brother is decent enough. It’s fun having a brother-in-law.’
‘Sidney? Ma says he’s a layabout.’
‘He’s got time on his hands because he’s got private money so he doesn’t have to have a job.’ Seeing that the information had caught her sister’s interest, she added, ‘Maybe you could marry him and be my sister-in-law.’
Mavis thought about it. ‘How could I? I’m already your sister. Anyway, his eyes are too close together.’
‘He can’t help that. He’s got a nice voice.’
Mavis laughed. ‘Can you imagine what Ma would say? It’s bad enough you marrying a Wickham! If we both did it she’d be tearing her hair out!’ Before Dolly could decide to take offence at this slur on her husband, Mavis quickly changed the subject. ‘We could steam it open. The letter, I mean.’
; ‘Certainly not!’
‘Why? You’re a married woman now, Doll – you can do what you like.’
‘It belongs to someone upstairs.’
Mavis gave a fiendish grin. ‘Let’s take it up to them, whoever they are. If there’s nobody there and it’s not locked we can have a look round the office, and if it’s locked we can push the letter under the door. Really, Dolly, I can’t believe you’ve never been up there.’
‘I didn’t live here then, did I? Don said they had nothing to do with the “upstairs lot” . . . and I’m not the nosy type.’
‘You always were!’
Dolly ignored the remark. It was true that she was a married woman, so presumably she could do more or less what she liked. Without a word she led the way up the stairs, along the landing and up a few steps at the end of the passage where they were met by a flimsy-looking door with peeling paint.
Mavis leaned past Dolly and rapped on the door.
Nothing.
Dolly said, ‘I’ve never heard footsteps overhead. Perhaps they only open the office on certain days – like Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.’ She turned the handle. To their surprise the door creaked open, and after a moment’s hesitation they pushed inside the room, squashed together as they went through the narrow opening.
It was a surprisingly bleak and disappointing sight – a large empty room, smelling musty and damp, and lit at the far end by a small, very dirty window. The low angled ceiling was hung with cobwebs and twisted strips of what Dolly assumed had once been ceiling paper.
‘Ugh!’ said Dolly and took a small step backwards.
There was a somewhat ramshackle table in one corner on which a small chest stood in solitary splendour among old faded newspapers and a sprinkling of sawdust. Two stools completed the furniture. Dolly shivered with distaste, but Mavis hurried forward and tried to open the chest.
‘It’s locked.’ Her dismay was evident.
‘Don’t touch it!’ cried Dolly. ‘It’s nothing to do with us.’
The Great Betrayal Page 6
