A Spider in the Cup

by Barbara Cleverly

  Joe didn’t like to hear the longing and envy in her voice and replied crisply, “I’m glad you grew too tall, Lydia, and evaded the traps. It’s criminal exploitation of minors in my book. I’d like to know how common it is.”

  “It happens more frequently than anyone guesses. And some of the exploiters are nearer home—the professional men who surround them: musicians, composers, choreographers, ballet coaches. Not all their admirers are rich. The girls, if they’re unimportant and unsupported and make a bad choice, just fall out of view and into the gutter. The grander ones with names, reputations and jewels to lose ‘throw a tantrum,’ or have a ‘difference of opinion’ with the ballet master and walk out for a few days. Sometimes they suffer from ‘mental and physical exhaustion’ and retire to the country for a month or two. Have you noticed how frequently that scenario is played out for the public?”

  “And the public, like me, naively put it down to the artistic temperament. And grumble quietly when an understudy is shoved on stage at the last minute. Good Lord! They must be available everywhere, these places?”

  “Most of the world’s great capitals can offer the facilities. And the discretion. At a price.”

  “You’d know where these establishments were to be found in London, Lyd?”

  “I’d start looking in Harley Street. Rich women are attracted by a grand address and reputation whatever their state of distress. Of course, they won’t advertise themselves openly. The birth control clinic I help to run would never be able to function under that description—we have to call it a ‘Women’s Advisory Bureau.’ Inevitably, we get the occasional girl coming in to ask about office work and typing lessons. You’d have to look for something general, reassuring and yet clinical on their letter heading. And their invoices.”

  “How about St. Catherine’s Clinic, Feminine Hygiene. Diagnostic, Surgical and Speciality Care by highly qualified physicians?” He read from his notebook the words Armitage had noted down.

  “Oh, yes! May I look?… Yes, I’d say that leaves no room for doubt for those with eyes to see. But—imagine a husband presented with a bill from such an establishment. He’s going to pay up at once with no questions asked. Too embarrassing. He’ll argue about the price of an Ascot hat but his good lady’s internal plumbing system? The less known, the better. And it doesn’t exactly invite a raid by The Plod, does it?”

  “I know what we’d find! Polished instruments, starched nurses, indignant patients all with a distinguished relative in the Home Office. ‘Cousin Theodore shall hear of this!’ Been there, Lyd!”

  “But what are you expecting to find in this place? I can see you’re already planning a visit. Or should I say—who will be there? Natalia’s taken a little time off to have her female problems diagnosed and treated? Is that what you’re thinking? Well! That would certainly give a reason for the quarrel you say they had on Tuesday night. They had plenty to discuss! Whose child? To let live or not to let live? Career or marriage? It could have turned noisy and nasty. Not the sort of scene you want to play out in a hotel—not even Claridge’s.”

  “And her maid, who’s the only one in the know, makes a clandestine visit to check all’s well after her mistress’s hasty departure. She’s covering up for her. How irritating!”

  “But it’s falling into place. You’ve established a link between your dead girl and your still-alive senator. The chain runs straight through to this abortion clinic.”

  “A possible link. Won’t hold water, Lydia. I need something more tangible before I can mount a raid. I’ll bet my boots that’s where Natalia’s holed up but we have nothing yet to associate the dead dancer with St. Catherine’s. And we have a hint that the place is foreign-owned. German.” Joe didn’t reveal that his source was a London cabdriver. “It’s all a bit sensitive. I can’t just send in the coppers, even armed with a search warrant. I can ask for questions to be asked of Companies’ House and the precise ownership established, however.”

  “You’ll have to get Bacchus to help you then. Your super secret special squad will leap at the chance to go in and kick a few Teutonic shins.”

  Joe grimaced. “It would make a change from Irish and Russian shins, I suppose. Who’ve you been talking to—that old firebrand, Churchill? Something more diplomatic is called for, I think. And Bacchus has his hands full for the next week or two trying to keep Balkan factions from cutting each other’s throats on English soil. I wouldn’t have the words to ask him to spare men for a raid on a ladies’ health clinic.

  “This maid that you followed—she seems to have the entrée. Any use to you? What did she take with her? Bunch of grapes? Copy of War And Peace? Spare knickers in a Vuitton weekend case?”

  “None of those. And that’s a bit odd. She had nothing more than a small handbag with her when she rang the bell at St. Catherine’s.”

  “What a cheek—choosing St. Catherine for your patron.”

  “Is she significant?”

  “There’s more than one Catherine. The most famous one—she of the wheel, from Alexandria, is a very proper person to name yourself for. One of the harder-working saints in the canon. She’s the one most people will assume is presiding over the place along with countless churches, colleges and cats’ homes. But there’s another one: the Swedish Catherine. Her speciality is protection against abortion and miscarriage. This is quite a joker you’re dealing with, Joe.”

  “Lydia, this swirling madness is beginning to crystallise and take on a shape of reason,” Joe said. “And I think I preferred the madness.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Julia opened her eyes wide, snapping awake, knowing, as she always did, exactly where she was and that the time was five o’clock, the start of her working day. A precious hour to herself to bathe and dress and get ready for the day before waking Natalia.

  No Natalia! No more routine! The thought brought relief and made her smile. But she had to make a start. She stifled a yawn and remembered enough of the night before to avoid stretching her aching limbs. She wanted no mewling and groaning to give her presence away.

  A chink of daylight was already cutting through into the room at the edge of one of the carelessly drawn curtains and in the very far distance she could just make out the gentle buzz of the hotel getting ready for the day. The sounds reminded her that, of her many lapses the previous evening, she’d forgotten to put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign. She eased her way out of bed and moved quietly to the door. She managed to get it open without a sound and hung the warning over the doorknob. Half the staff in the hotel, she suspected, were on somebody’s payroll and she wasn’t experienced enough in that shady world to be able to spot them. The best she could do was keep all dubious strangers away from her for as long as possible.

  The dubious stranger at present lying dead to the world in the centre of the double bed—she had no intention of attracting his attention either.

  Just distinguishable in the grey light, the Vionnet dress and her french knickers were lying in a heap on the floor in lascivious liaison with the black leather strapping of her boot. In disgust, she gathered them into a bundle and left them by the door to make her exit swifter. Now for the tricky bit. She tittupped jerkily back and listened to his regular breathing. Too regular? At that moment, he grunted, scratched his bum and turned over. His head was now turned to his left and she smiled to see that the exposed side of his face still bore the marks of her palm and fingers from the almighty wallop she’d given him in the corridor. One of her best. Julia didn’t like violence but she’d grown up surrounded by it and had learned ways of controlling it, even using it judiciously. There was a kind of man—her father one of them—who wouldn’t hesitate to slap a woman about. They were too many but easily identified and the only way to get the better of them was to show you weren’t going to stand any of their nonsense.

  She’d seen a film about tigers at a Saturday matinee for kids and it had changed her life. A female with two tiny cubs to protect had had to fight off a marauding male which t
hreatened to kill them. The spitting fury of the attack the female launched while the male was still flexing his muscles and showing off had sent him reeling away. Both animals knew he had the power to win a stand-up fight but the steely intent in the eyes of the tigress had warned him that he’d emerge victorious but torn and bleeding—possibly to death. Julia had never had anything younger and weaker than herself to protect but she’d quivered and snarled and fought in spirit along with that tigress and knew that she was capable of the same passion.

  Whack first, was a good plan. Not such a risky thing for her. Just about the only advantage of her condition. Nobody would raise a hand to a cripple. It was a rare man who let himself get within touching distance of her anyway. They usually gave in with bad grace at the challenge to their authority and accepted that they’d run up against a stronger will or they took off at once because they were looking for someone weaker to bully.

  William Armiger seemed to come into neither category. He certainly hadn’t taken off and he hadn’t backed down either. He’d just laughed and made a grab for her. And she’d made her first mistake. She’d sheathed her claws. For a moment, staring at his handsome face, she was tempted to climb back into bed and repeat her mistakes.

  Most faces softened in sleep when all defences were down. This one didn’t. It was all clear-cut brows, hard planes, smooth surfaces. The only flaw was the turgid mark she’d inflicted herself. Her hand went out automatically in a swiftly controlled impulse to rub it away. Too late now. A perfectly shaped head. Even the ears were neat. Where’d he sprung from? How had a man like this grown up so straight and limber amid the privations, the dirt and the disease of the pre-war East End? They were still there, in their teeming thousands, undersized, undernourished Londoners with rickety legs, raw lungs and rotting teeth. Though occasionally one got away and prospered. She’d compared Agent Armiger to Cary Grant, she remembered, carelessly, just to annoy Sandilands and show off that she was up to the minute with the movies, but she hadn’t been wide of the mark. That lovely bloke now parading around Hollywood was carving out a career for himself personifying Aristocracy, at least make-believe aristocracy. Julia had met samples of the real thing in three continents and they didn’t look remotely like Mr. Grant. He was never out of a tuxedo and top hat these days, surrounded by smart-mouthed, adoring beauties in white ostrich feathers and diamonds but, truth to tell, his childhood had been spent in England, in misery and poverty. If he didn’t have the same cleft chin and warm dark eyes, Armiger had the identical air of confidence and self-belief.

  Julia remembered that William’s eyes were grey and penetrating. He wasn’t an easy man to lie to. If he’d gone along with Sandilands’ suggestion of catching her out in the matter of King Kong, she would have been unable to meet his eye and she’d have been sunk. Why on earth had he shielded her? So that she’d owe him a favour? Because he wanted to let her run a little farther like a wounded rabbit for sport before exposing her? Out of pity—that was more likely. Whatever the reason, he’d given a fine lesson in good-humoured courtesy to Gentleman Joe, who’d accepted it with good grace. She lingered, wondering, half-hoping the eyes would flick open and flood his features with laughter and lust.

  She looked away from him with regret. She was wasting precious time. Things to do. She found his trousers and felt in the right hand pocket where he’d put the keys she needed. Kingstone’s suite. Kingstone’s telephone. The switchboard was manned through the night here. She should have no problems.

  Bill half-opened an eye to watch her neat bottom disappear round the door. Now what the hell was all that about? He was tempted for a moment to leap up and haul her back; women never left him in the lurch the morning after. Losing his touch? He hadn’t thought so. It had all gone very well—better than he was expecting. At the recollection, he rolled over and snuggled his nose into the pillow she’d just left. Yes, it had been bluebells all the way. Light and joyful. She’d made him laugh and that was a first for Armitage. He’d never encountered that before. An earful of guilty sighing and doomful regrets were the usual price he paid for a night’s adventure. But here she was, nicking his keys and slinking off across the corridor. Just as well, perhaps. He groped for his wristwatch. Just after five. A busy morning ahead and at least he wouldn’t have to spend time raking over the events of the night before.

  Still, he could have spared half an hour. Perhaps she’d heard the phone ring? She’d be bound to answer it. Bill had no illusions—all the girl’s loyalties were to her mistress, bloody hysterical Natalia, and, he could have sworn, to Kingstone himself in equal measure. He sat up and smoothed his cheek. Bloody woman! She’d never have put a hand to Kingstone’s craggy features even if he gave her cause. What made her think she had leave to make his face sting? Armitage remembered the bee and grinned. He’d paid up front for his pleasure.

  INSPECTOR ORFORD WAITED impatiently for first light. He was getting pretty fed up with this stretch of riverbank. A detective sergeant could have done this particular bit of the investigation with no problems and reported back to him but—and he suspected that this was a trait he had in common with the assistant commissioner—he was a chap who liked to keep his own hand on the tiller.

  Orford had taken encouragement from his short acquaintance with the new assistant commissioner’s methods. He seemed to be a man you worked with, not for, and the inspector approved of that.

  At a nod from the inspector, his escorting uniformed constable, a young copper who’d been left on duty in the area overnight, stepped out towards the boat. “Site’s been cleared, sir, following removal of body. Nothing much to see. What are we looking for?”

  “Chalk marks, Constable. You go and get started here at the blunt end and work your way round. Use your torch.”

  “Right, sir. See you at the prow in a minute.” A second later, the constable’s excited voice sang out: “Got something, sir! Here—look. It’s a bit faint but them’s letters. Scrawled across the transom.”

  “Know your boats, do you?”

  “Naw! Only from Sunday afternoons on the boating pool at Southend. Look—he’s made himself a door to get in and out. That’s nifty!” He pointed to the flat rear of the boat and waggled one of the halves to illustrate. “It’s his front door and he’s put his name over it.”

  They peered at the almost obscured chalk marks.

  “Two words, sir,” the constable breathed. It’s ‘Ab … Ab … three more letters then: on … om … at the end. Second word’s ‘Hope.’ Absalom Hope! That’s him!”

  “No, lad.” The inspector spoke gently, not wishing to dampen the young man’s enthusiasm. “It’s the boat’s name. Just where you’d expect it to be, on its rear end. He’s called it the Abandon Hope. Poor bugger! Turned out to be a suitable sentiment in the circumstances. It’s from Dante’s Inferno. Italian poem. A long one. The warning at the entrance to Hell: Abandon hope all ye who enter here. It was my old school motto,” he added jokingly. He copied the two words into his notebook.

  The constable gave the governor an admiring look. This was what a grammar school education did for you. “Italian, eh? Fancy our lad knowing that, sir! They didn’t find any books in his crib.”

  “He had the latest copy of Paper Doll in his pocket. Surprising what you read in pulp magazines these days. It’s not all naked ladies and racing tips. They all have their ‘culture corner.’ Here—hang on, lad! We’re not off yet! There’s four sides to a boat—port and starboard but outside and inside as well. Help me roll it over.”

  “Cor! There! On the smooth bit along the keel. We could have missed that, guv. Now we’ve got letters and numbers. ALM 145. Registration number of a motor car?”

  Orford looked over his shoulder back at the row of gas lamps on the embankment. They were all still alight apart from the one that had been nobbled.

  “The motor vehicle that parked over there three nights ago? The motor that brought the body down here for burial. Our poor old sailor boy twigged there was something wrong
going on, wriggled out to check the registration plate, wriggled back in again and chalked up the number for future reference.”

  “Fair enough. Very public spirited. Didn’t do him any good though. They must have seen him, and done him in.” The constable looked about him, suddenly nervous.

  “It’s going to do us some good though. He may not have died in vain. Records will be able to give us the name and address of the owner of the vehicle and we’ve got ’em! Bagged! We’ll have something to tell Sandilands when he strolls back in from his weekend.”

  He put a tick in his notebook, turned the page and scanned his notes. “Right. One down, one to go,” he muttered. “Next on the menu: shepherd’s pie and rice pudding. Gawd!”

  “Beg pardon, sir?”

  “Stomach contents. Last meal eaten by the girl they buried down there in the mud.” He pointed with his pencil. “A ballet dancer, she was.”

  “Doesn’t sound much like what a dancer would eat. Don’t they feed ’em lettuce leaves?”

  “You’re not wrong, lad. Weighty stuff—pie and pudding! Can’t see the Covent Garden canteen offering that to the chorus line, can you? Wreaks havoc with your grand jeté. So—where d’you go in London to get that combination of rib-sticking fodder, Constable?” he asked idly.

  “My Gran’s, sir. On a Tuesday. That’s home cooking where I come from. Beef joint, Sunday; cold cut, Monday; minced up for shepherd’s pie, Tuesday. Regular as clockwork. Rice pud’n every day. Always one on the go in the bottom oven.”

  “Thanks for that. If all else fails, I’ll stick your granny in the frame as an accessory to murder.” He looked at his watch. “Six o’clock. Time your relief turned up. Tell him when he comes there’ll be a police photographer in attendance to record the chalkings. And when he’s done, that’s it, we’ve finished here and you can all bugger off. I’m off about my other chores now. Well done! Now go and get your bacon buttie, lad.”