by Lynda Wilcox
“Last Saturday?” He picked up a cloth and started to polish a glass. “Yes, that’s right, Cropper came in then.”
“Have you seen him since?”
“Can’t say as I have.” His brow creased and he glanced across at the group by the fire, elderly men with weather-beaten faces and little or no hair, who were listening in to the conversation and ogling Eleanor. “What about you? Anyone seen Martin Cropper lately?”
His question elicited only shakes of the head and murmurs in the negative.
Eleanor’s heart sank a little.
“Was Martin often in here?”
“Well, once or twice a week, maybe, and regularly on Saturday morning. He came in after work, but he never stopped for long. He’d have a pint and then get off home.”
“Only a pint?”
That didn’t quite gel with what Cameron McIntyre had told her. He’d implied that Cropper was a little more fond of his drink than that. Had he been deliberately trying to mislead her, or not as well informed as he liked to think?
“Yes, that’s all, generally speaking, though he might have had two on a Saturday sometimes. He reckoned just a pint was all it took to rinse the taste of paint from his throat.”
“So, how many did he drink last Saturday?.”
“Just the one.”
The landlord seemed sure on that point. Eleanor nodded, ordered a round of drinks for the pub’s other customers and a glass of lemonade for herself and sipped it reflectively when it was placed in front of her.
She barely paid attention as the landlord carried a tray of drinks to the table by the fire, until one of the men jokingly suggested that Cropper had found himself another local.
“Is that likely?” she asked, wandering across to stand next to them. If her quarry visited a number of pubs besides the Crown and Anchor, then maybe McIntyre had been telling the truth, after all.
“Oh, don’t take no notice of old Bert, ma’am. He’s joshing you.”
The landlord gave a nervous laugh. Eleanor thought he looked uncomfortable at the suggestion that Cropper had gone elsewhere for his drink. She looked at the man called Bert.
“If Mr Cropper did go to another pub, could you give me the name of it? Someone there might know what has happened to him.”
A sheepish look crossed his wizened features. “I can’t think of nowhere definite, though I think it stands to reason. There’s plenty of pubs around here.”
The thought of trawling around all the public houses in Southwark held little appeal. Mary had made no mention of doing so, so perhaps she hadn’t cared for the idea either.
Eleanor kicked herself for not asking her client what she had done to find her husband. Mary had called on Mr Bairstow, and reported Martin’s disappearance to the police, but what other lengths had she gone to in trying to trace him?
“Has Mrs Cropper been in asking about her husband?” She directed the question at the landlord, who shook his head.
“I’ve never met the woman, as far as I’m aware.”
“Cropper didn’t ever bring a woman here?”
“No. Like I said, he called after work and that’s the only time I saw him.”
“All right. Thank you. I’ll just have to keep looking.”
She moved away a step, prepared to call it quits, when one of the drinkers called out.
“I saw young Martin later last Saturday.”
“Oh?” she said. “When was that?”
He sucked his teeth and stared into his already empty glass, but Eleanor was not fooled by the ploy. She’d already bought him one drink which he’d downed as if beer were going out of fashion. If he had anything to tell he’d have to spit it out before she bought another.
“So, where did you see him?”
The old man glowered, but as Eleanor continued to stare at him, tapping her foot on the floor, he shrugged as if accepting he was beaten. “Well then, it were down the road aways. I were heading in here and Martin had not long left it.”
“Did he speak to you?”
“I don’t think he even saw me. He was talking to some geezer in a blazer.”
“A man in a blazer? Can you describe him?”
He shrugged. “Not really. I didn’t pay him that much attention. He had fair hair, I think, and he wore dark trousers with that navy blue blazer.”
Was it a blazer, or just a workman’s jacket? It might have been either and neither one was really helpful. Eleanor pressed him.
“You’re sure it was a blazer?”
“Oh, aye, it were all right, ’cause it had a crest on the top pocket. Just here.” He patted the upper right part of his chest.
“Get away, Tom.” His mate was dismissive. “The only thing you saw was the sign for the Crown and Anchor.”
A lot of good natured laughter followed the comment and Eleanor turned to the landlord, as if for confirmation that the old man was telling the truth. Could she rely on the fact that he’d seen Cropper after he’d left the pub. The landlord raised his hands as if to say, ‘maybe, maybe not’.
She looked back at Tom. “What sort of a crest was it?”
“Lumme, the questions you ask. How should I know?” He screwed up his face in an effort of thought. “It had initials on it, I think. Yeah, let me see.” He scratched his forehead. “I only caught a glimpse before he shifted position, but I reckon it were something like RRO. What that means, or what it stands for, I couldn’t tell yer, but before you ask, them letters were yellow. Or maybe gold.”
“Does it mean anything to anyone else?” Eleanor looked around the group, but was met with shaking heads.”
“Sorry, love, not a thing.”
“No, it don’t.”
“Can’t say as it does.”
“Did the two men seem friendly, Tom?” she asked. “They weren’t having an argument or anything, were they?”
“Not as I could tell. I was on my way here, don’t forget and just walked on past with a word to Martin. I didn’t hear nought of what they said.”
“Nothing distracts you from your beer, does it mate?”
Laughter rang out and Eleanor sighed. “All right, thank you. There is one other thing I need to ask, and then I’ll leave you in peace.” She smiled and took out her purse. A little more bait wouldn’t do any harm and should keep her audience sweet. “Both Mr Cropper’s employer and his workmates claim that he was devoted to his wife. Would you agree?”
They would, every one of them, and said so, loudly and at length. She was left in no doubt of Cropper’s feelings for his wife and had to admit to herself that wherever the man might be, he wasn’t with a secret paramour.
She paid up and said her goodbyes, with both the landlord and his customers urging her to drop by again soon. The memory brought a smile to her lips as she hurried back to the Lagonda, though her visit to Southwark seemed to have been largely a waste of time, despite the conversations she had had with the two groups of men.
She had learnt nothing that would account for Cropper’s disappearance and the man he’d been seen talking to might have been anybody from a relative to someone asking for directions, or a light for his cigarette. If this was what detectives called a lead it was as slender as the silk thread used to make her stockings.
Feeling thoroughly disgruntled at her lack of progress, she drove home to Piccadilly.
Chapter 5
Tilly sniffed as her mistress walked into the apartment offering profuse apologies for her lateness.
“I thought it might take you a while, so I’ve only made soup for your lunch — celery and Stilton as that’s your favourite. I do have some fresh bread and butter to go with it, though.”
There is nothing finer than a slab of freshly baked bread smeared with golden butter when you are hungry. Eleanor bit into it with relish and smiled at her maid.
“I nearly stopped for fish and chips, but I’m glad I decided not to. This is far nicer.” She leant over the bowl and breathed in the aroma before sitting back. “You’v
e only set for one,” she observed. “Have you had your lunch already?”
“Yes, I didn’t wait. I’d plenty to be getting on with and the soup could stand re-heating.”
“Well, sit down a minute while I have this, will you? I’d like to talk things through with you and get your opinion on my morning’s adventures.”
“Very well, my lady.”
Tilly perched on the edge of a chair and waited, well used to attending on her mistress, but grateful for a chance to sit down and take a break now the chores were done. If Eleanor chose to share her thoughts, she was happy to listen, and quite prepared to venture an opinion, whether it be asked for, or not.
“I’ve discovered one thing, at least,” said Eleanor after she’d recounted her morning’s visits between mouthfuls of soup.
“And what might that be?”
“That I’m not cut out to be a detective.”
“Nonsense, my lady. Nobody becomes a detective overnight any more than they become a concert pianist, or a champion jockey. It’s bound to take practice.”
Eleanor stood up from the table and lit a cigarette. “I seem only now to be realising all the things that I should have asked Mary Cropper to tell me when I took the commission. I can hardly go to her now and ask them. She’d think me incompetent — and she’d be right.”
“Well, you weren’t to know what you needed to know before you knew you needed it,” replied Tilly, cryptically.
“Everyone that I spoke to this morning could have been lying, and I would have been none the wiser. I can’t put people on the spot like the police can. Our old friend Chief Inspector Blount of Scotland Yard would have got far more out of them than I did.”
Tilly sniffed and shook her head. “Once again, my lady, you’re being too hard on yourself. The Chief Inspector is a very experienced policeman. He’s probably been a detective for longer than you’ve been born.”
“But —”
“Besides, the police are no better at finding missing persons than you may be.”
“But —”
“And furthermore, you’ve only been working on the case for a morning. Did you really expect to solve it so soon?”
Faced with this onslaught of logic, Eleanor subsided into her chair and scowled at the fire.
Tilly gathered Eleanor’s few pots together and gave her mistress a straight look. “You knew when Lady Lancashire was untruthful, and Howard Eisenbach, too, though, didn’t you?”
The mention of two people from her previous cases did nothing to mollify Eleanor.
“That’s different. They were more or less the same class as me. I know how to deal with my own class. I’ve had a lifetime of it, of watching and interacting with them. For all I know Cropper’s work and drinking mates could have been spinning me all sorts of fairy stories.”
Tilly so far forgot herself as to rattle the pots back down on the table. “Poppycock!”
Eleanor looked around. “I beg your pardon?”
Two bright spots of colour appeared on Tilly’s cheeks, but she stuck to her guns. “You know how to talk to me, and the other servants at Rowsley Park, and the woman at the Post Office, and young Joe Minshull and his mother. Why bring class into it? All right, so you didn’t get on as well as you would have liked in Southwark, but your feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to help Mrs Cropper much.”
The remains of Eleanor’s cigarette hit the back of the grate with perfect accuracy. “Oh, Tilly, I’m sorry.” She rubbed a hand across her forehead. “You’re right, of course. I felt very dispirited driving home, but that is no excuse.”
It said much for Lady Eleanor’s character, and the relationship between the two women, that it was she who apologised. The ability to admit herself in the wrong went a long way to explain her maid’s devotion, that and a lifetime’s friendship.
“So, do you have any suggestions as to what I do next?”
“Trust your own instincts, my lady. Did you believe all that you were told by Mr Cropper’s colleagues and the men in the pub?”
Eleanor considered the question. On the whole, the answer was yes. They had all seemed to have liked the missing man, and appeared as baffled as his wife at his disappearance. There had been no shifty looks, no obvious bluster or prevarication.
“Yes, Tilly, I think I did. One of the workmen didn’t say anything, but then he didn’t know Cropper, having been brought in by Bairstow to replace him. Besides, as the foreman of that group, Cameron McIntyre did most of the talking for them. I honestly thought everyone was trying to be helpful, even the old men in the pub.”
“You don’t think they might have made things up because you bought them drinks?”
Eleanor laughed. “My, aren’t we a cynic? No, I think if one of them had done that, the others would have shouted him down. They couldn’t in the case of old Tom, but I think he was telling the truth.”
Tilly nodded and thought for a moment. “Checking the local hospitals might be an idea, my lady.”
“Good thinking. I’ll go and do that now.” Eleanor rose to her feet, delighted to have another idea to focus on after feeling herself at a dead end. Until Tilly put the mockers on the plan.
“Don’t forget you’re having tea with Lady Serena Beaumont this afternoon,” she said.
“Oh! So I am. Drat! I can hardly let Serena down. It’s not often she comes to London and I always enjoy her company. Besides, tea at the Savoy is not to be missed. Their scones are almost as good as yours.”
Tilly grinned. “And neither are as good as my mother’s.” She thought for a moment. “I could visit the local hospitals while you’re with Lady Serena, if you wanted. If I did it by taxi, I could be back here before you, probably.
Eleanor ran a fingernail under her lower lip. “No, but what you might do for me is make a list of all the hospitals south of the river and any that are close to the Thames on the north bank. We might visit them together, later.” She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Now, I’d better get changed and phone for the car. I don’t want to be late for meeting Serena.”
“And you’re due at Lady Flaxwood’s party this evening. The invitation said nine o’clock, prompt.”
Eleanor groaned and went to put on something more suitable for tea at one of London’s most famous and elegant hotels.
An hour later, clad in a drop-waisted silk dress by Jean Patou, she entered the foyer at the Savoy and, to the accompanying melody of a string quartet, was shown to a table under the glass dome where her friend was already seated.
“Darling, you look ravishing.” Serena stood and planted a kiss somewhere in the region of Eleanor’s left ear. “Golly, but it seems ages since I saw you.”
“That’s because it is.” Eleanor laughed and sat down. “Letters apart, it’s nearly two years since we met at Emily’s wedding.”
They ordered afternoon tea from the attentive waiter and while they waited Serena passed on the regards of her family and added that her brother had recently got engaged.
“He was very keen on you at one time. I could have wished that you had made a go of it.”
Eleanor blushed. “I’m sorry to have disappointed you both. Algy’s a sweetheart, but really not my type.”
She thought of the pale young man with the sandy hair, owlish glasses, and cold hands, and remembered with embarrassment his stammered proposal. All things considered, though never to be admitted to his sister, she’d had a lucky escape.
“Are there any men in your life at the moment, Eleanor?”
“Oh, oodles.” Eleanor winked. “But not in the way you mean. I don’t think I’m the marrying type.”
There was one man who occupied Eleanor’s thoughts a lot just lately, but that again wasn’t something she wanted to tell Serena about.
Fortunately, the tea arrived at that moment.
“Oh, good. I’m ravenous,” said Serena. She helped herself to a smoked salmon sandwich and tucked in.
Eleanor poured tea for them both and helped h
erself to a couple of the exquisitely cut dainty triangles. It was several hours since she’d had the soup and the Savoy’s sandwiches — even if they did contain salmon, or rare roast beef — were barely a morsel. The scones and cream cakes were of more generous proportions, she was glad to note.
“So, this job you wrote to me about,” said Serena, wiping her hands on a linen napkin, “I have to say I was surprised.”
“Oh? In what way?”
“Well, you have to admit it’s an odd choice of career. A private enquiry agent seems rather seedy, somehow.”
Eleanor took a sip of tea and kept a straight face. “Seedy certainly describes some of my clients. Let’s see, there’s been a peer of the realm and his wife, and a Member of Parliament, though he wasn’t a client, he was a jewel thief. I’ve also dealt with murdered American millionaires, but he wasn’t in the least bit seedy. I rather liked him, even though we’d only just met.
“Then there was the millionaire newspaper proprietor who was also an arms dealer. He was pretty seedy, I grant you.”
Serena’s eyes bulged. She almost spluttered her tea. “Dear me. It does sound rather exciting when you put it like that.”
And Eleanor hadn’t even mentioned the spies. She let out a sigh. “It isn’t always like that. Only this morning, for instance, I spent several fruitless hours trying to find a missing painter.”
“Oh?” Serena looked up from buttering a scone. “Anyone I’ve ever heard of? Landscapes or portraits? What’s he painted?”
“Tower Bridge.”
“Eh? Oh! I see.” She took a bite from the scone and talked around it. “So he wasn’t a millionaire, then?”
“Sadly not. More the starving in the garret sort, I rather think.”
“Well, talking of crime, did I tell you that Father had a run in with the law last month?”
It transpired that Serena and Algy were on a trip to visit their grandmother, driven there by their father, when they had seen a man jump over the nearby church wall with a couple of candlesticks under his arm. Lord Beaumont had managed to trap the thief while Algy relieved him of his booty and Serena had phoned the local constabulary.
