by Lynda Wilcox
Eleanor sat in the darkness trying to see the blood on her left hand by the light of the passing street lamps, wishing she’d had the presence of mind to enter the ambulance with Peter before it had rushed away. Now, she had to find him and she didn’t relish having to trawl the hospitals as she had planned on doing for Martin Cropper.
When they reached their destination, the taxi driver refused to wait on the grounds that he’d only picked her up because she wanted to go south of the river and he was heading that way himself. She was his last fare of the night.
“It’s been a long day. I’m off to my bed.” He took his fare, gunned the engine and shot off, leaving Eleanor to enter the hospital on her own.
A sleepy night porter looked up at her arrival in the stark white entrance hall. The sharp tang of antiseptic met Eleanor’s nose as she approached his desk and asked if Major Peter Armitage had just been admitted.
“There was a patient came in about half an hour ago. That might be your man.” He rubbed his fists into his eyes and peered at her. “As far as I know they took him to the Emergency Room. If you’ll take a seat, I’ll find out for you.”
Eleanor watched him shamble away and did as she was told, then looked around for a washroom. She ought to clean her blood-stained hands, but feared to move from her place until she had news of the major.
A clock on the wall behind the porter’s desk ticked away the minutes. Surprised to find it already three o’clock, Eleanor shivered in apprehension and tried to calm herself.
An outsider, observing her there, would have seen a young woman with an erect posture sitting quietly and demurely waiting for news. They would not have seen the turmoil within, the pounding heart, the racing brain, as Eleanor attempted to make sense of what had happened.
Who was behind the attack? It had been no random shooting, she was sure of that, but was Armitage the intended victim, or herself? Her mind played the scene over and over, his shout, his hand on her back as he pushed her to safety, her quick glimpse of the rear of the car as it went past, the mental snapshot she had taken of its number plate.
She had often cursed the major’s interference in her life, but at the thought of that life without him, a yawning emptiness opened up before her. Coldness clutched her heart. She refused to look into that void, but sat rigid, waiting, listening to the silence around and within herself.
It was better than thinking of all the things that they might have done together that now she must do alone, or not at all. All the things she might have told him, done for him, given up for him.
Footsteps and the rustle of a stiffly starched uniform alerted her to the arrival of a nurse with the porter. She surveyed Eleanor gravely.
“You are here about Major Peter Armitage, I understand.”
“Yes, that’s right. How is he?”
“Are you a relative, madam?”
“N...n...no. I’m just a friend. We were together when it happened.”
The nurse swept a glance over Eleanor. Her severe gaze softened as she took in the dirtied coat and the nervous, restless, bloody hands.
“I’m sorry, my dear. He’s gone.”
“Oh!”
“He’d lost a lot of blood.” She shook her head. “If you want any more information, I suggest you speak to the family. Good morning.”
Eleanor wanted to scream. Gone? Gone where? But the nurse’s implication had been clear enough.
Major Peter Armitage was dead.
Chapter 15
Eleanor found a taxi to take her to Bellevue Mansions. Unlike the driver who had taken her to the hospital, this driver had no qualms about getting her across town in the shortest possible time in exchange for a big tip. Once home, she gave Tilly the shocking news, collapsed into her arms, and let the maid take care of her. Then she went to her room.
Sleep, however, was out of the question.
Sleep would have implied all the wrong things; that she could forget the events of the night, that Peter Armitage meant nothing to her, that she hadn’t cared for him — and that she never had done and never would. Ever since they had met up again just a few short months ago, Eleanor had suspected the opposite to be true, though she would never have admitted it, not to Tilly, not to Ann, not even to herself.
No, sleep was impossible, and the only reason for being there, lying on top of her eiderdown in the bedroom, was to allow Tilly to rest.
With every passing hour, the void inside her widened. Tears might have brought their own relief, but she refused to allow them to flow. She simply lay there, huddled in her emptiness, scared to face a future that did not contain him.
Feeling the loss of him, yet still too stunned to take it in, she whispered his name in the darkness.
She got up at dawn to find Tilly had set water to boil and was busy laying a fire in the drawing room grate.
“Good morning, Tilly. I’ll make the tea.”
“There’s coffee if you’d prefer it, my lady. I’ll see to it when I’ve finished here.”
“No, that’s all right. I need something to keep me occupied.”
She gave a wintry smile that barely reached her eyes — eyes with dark circles underneath them, standing out like bruises in the stark white face.
Tilly shook her head in concern, but when she opened her mouth to protest, Eleanor turned and went into the kitchen.
Making a pot of tea kept the hands busy, but Eleanor’s mind was still free to wander, and linger on things she would far rather forget. Leaving the tea to brew, she fetched a pad and pen from the small room she used as a study, then returned to pour out two cups, one of which she left for Tilly in the kitchen, and the other she carried through to her seat by the fireside.
The maid had got a good blaze going and Eleanor stared at the flickering flames for a long time, sipping her tea, nibbling at the slice of toast that Tilly forced upon her, and doodling on the pad. She had intended making notes of the previous evening, but her brain had gone absent without leave and she was unable to focus.
She was still there, an hour or so later, when Tilly announced the arrival of Chief Inspector Blount from Scotland Yard. About to say that she wasn’t at home to callers, Tilly forestalled her.
“You’ll have to see him sometime, my lady, and you should give him all the help you can if you want the major’s killer brought to justice.”
“I know. I just don’t feel like facing anyone right now.”
Tilly put a hand on her mistress’s shoulder. “It’s not like you to shirk an unpleasant duty, my lady. Why don’t you go and put a bit of colour in your cheeks, and I’ll show him in while you do so.”
Eleanor shook her head. The thought of putting on a show, trying to appear normal, when she felt that her world had fallen apart, wasn’t to be borne. Was this how Mary Cropper had reacted?
“Just show him in, Tilly. Let’s get this over and done with.”
It was perhaps symptomatic of the blow she had suffered that when the giant frame of the Chief Inspector came lumbering into the drawing room, Eleanor forgot her manners and continued to stare into the flames as if unable to look away, hypnotised by their merry dance.
She wasn’t aware of how, in one quick practised glance, Blount took in her ashen face and the way she sat huddled by the fire. Nor that he cursed the job he had to do. Oblivious to his presence, the flames, the memories, held her.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, your ladyship.”
“Hmm?” For a moment she was a long way away.
“I said, I’m sorry to bother you at this time, my lady.”
This time his gentle voice registered. She glanced up, surprised to see what she took to be reassurance in his eyes. With a supreme effort, she got herself in hand, determined to make his job easier for him.
“That’s all right, Chief Inspector.” She pointed to the second armchair. “Please have a seat. Would you like coffee? Or a cup of tea, perhaps?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
She opened the silve
r box on the occasional table, offered him a cigarette and took one herself.
“You’ve called about last night’s shooting, I suppose.” Her voice was low, but steady.
“Yes, my lady. I take it that you weren’t hurt?”
She looked down at her palms. “Just a graze. No more.”
“I’m delighted to hear it.” Blount shifted his bulk into the comfortable armchair and put his hands on his knees. “Now, what can you tell me about last night?”
She drew on her cigarette and gazed into the fire. “Not much. Not enough to help you catch the culprit.”
“Let me be the judge of that. Why don’t you start at the beginning.”
Where was the beginning? Was it last night, or two days ago when he’d run into her, sending her parcels flying? Was it in France during the war? Her head was full of cobwebs, wispy memories of when Peter Armitage had been alive and well. When the world had been a darker, and then a brighter place. How dare it darken again now?
These thoughts got her nowhere. She shook them off and faced the Chief Inspector.
“Very well. The major and I had been to a dinner at the Watermen’s Hall. He was on business.”
“Ah!” He leaned towards her. “Can you tell me what that was?”
Surprised, Eleanor furrowed her brow “Don’t you know?”
“No, but I’d very much like to. You know these Military Intelligence types. They like to keep things close to their chest and play by their own rules.”
But Eleanor didn’t know the type at all. The only man she’d ever met from the Intelligence Department had been Major Armitage, and while she agreed with Chief Inspector Blount’s assessment of their secretive nature, that didn’t help her decide what Peter would want her to do.
She threw her cigarette end into the fire and rang the bell for Tilly while she made up her mind what to say to the man from Scotland Yard.
When the maid arrived, she ordered a pot of coffee. “Are you sure you won’t join me, Chief Inspector?”
“No, thank you, my lady.”
Eleanor waited until Tilly had returned to the kitchen before she gave Blount his answer.
“The major was looking for a Russian spy called Sergei Leonov who he believed would attempt an attack on the Empire Exhibition in a week or so’s time. For reasons that I don’t understand he was looking for him somewhere along the Thames, possibly in Southwark.”
“Hmm. So he went to the Watermen, did he? That seems logical enough. Do you know if he discovered anything?”
Eleanor shrugged and gave the Chief Inspector an astute glance. “No. Do you really think he would have told me if he had?”
Blount’s mouth twisted in wry acknowledgement. “Fair point.”
“Frankly, I thought he only took me with him as camouflage. I’ve no idea what he gained, what he learned, from the evening. If he learned anything at all. All I can tell you is that he seemed happy enough when we left the Watermen’s Hall.”
She remembered his laughter, the easy banter, the way he had held her hand under the star filled sky. Tears prickled at the back of her eyes. She raised a hand and let it fall.
As if sensing her pain, Blount appeared to give her a moment before asking his next question. “I understand you were on foot when the shooting occurred. You didn’t take a taxi?”
“Not immediately, no.”
She had no intention of telling anyone what had passed between them, the words they had spoken, or the kiss they had shared. A kiss that burned in her memory as it had done on her lips. Was it only twelve hours ago?
“And the shooting happened on Eastcheap?”
“Yes. I gave the constable all the details at the time, not that they amounted to much, just the registration number of the car, AS 252. I’d really rather not go through them again.” Eleanor reached for another cigarette.
“That’s very understandable. We are still in the process of tracing everyone that was at Watermen’s Hall last evening. The vehicle may belong to one of your fellow guests. Did you see anyone about when you left?”
“Yes,” Eleanor snapped, “most of those same guests. There was quite a crowd of them standing on the pavement chatting and saying goodbye.”
Unperturbed by her flash of temper, Blount ploughed on. “And later? Did anyone follow you?”
She wanted to scream, “yes, whoever was in that car”, at him, but held her tongue. He was only doing his job. “I didn’t notice anyone.”
“Very well, my lady. I’ll leave it there for now. I’ll have a word with Whitehall and see if any of the Secret Service wallahs know any more about this Leonov chap, though given the nature of the work they do, it might have been anyone who took a pot shot at Major Armitage.”
“I suppose it’s too soon to ask if you’ve found the car?”
He gave a grim smile. “Not yet, my lady. We’ve got men out looking for it, so it should be only a matter of time. However, it’s the driver we want, and if the car’s been abandoned...”
“You don’t sound confident of finding the major’s killer, Chief Inspector.”
He shrugged his wide shoulders and gave her a rueful look. “Oh, we’ll do our best, my lady, same as always, but I’m not going to kid you that it will be easy.”
She nodded, aware that policemen always said things like that, though she thought he was right this time.
“Have his people been informed? I...I’m afraid I don’t know who they are.” She turned a pair of lifeless eyes upon him. “I’d like to send a card, offer my condolences, attend the funeral, if I may.”
He glanced away from her, the muscles of his jaw clamping in anger. “We’re looking into that, my lady.”
“Then, will you let me know?” She held out a hand as if in supplication. “Please.”
“As soon as I can.”
He took his leave not long after and held her cold hand in his own ham-sized paw for a moment as they stood at the front door.
“You have my sincere sympathies, my lady. If I may be so bold, you’d do best to get away from London for a while and try and put this whole shocking affair behind you. You can always give me a call if you remember anything you’d consider pertinent.”
“Of course. Thank you, Chief Inspector.”
She closed the door behind him and went back to her seat by the fire. Tilly was on her knees in front of it, putting on more coal.
“I’ve made you some lunch, it’s —”
“Thank you Tilly, but I’m not hungry.”
The maid sniffed and sat back on her haunches. “No, but it’s your favourite and you’ll eat it. You have to keep your strength up if you’re to catch the major’s killer.”
“Who says I’m going to?”
“You do.”
“But, that means finding Sergei Leonov and getting involved in espionage again. I swore I wouldn’t do that after the war.” She shrank back in her chair, shying away from memories too painful to face.
Tilly sniffed. “Don’t try and fool me that you’re going to leave it to Scotland Yard.”
Eleanor sighed and smiled at the mousy-haired treasure kneeling on the floor at her feet. Tilly was right. If Chief Inspector Blount didn’t find the killer, Eleanor felt honour bound to do so herself.
The question was, how?
Chapter 16
With a good portion of Tilly’s excellent bacon, cheese and potato pie inside her, Eleanor’s mood began to lift. Nothing would bring Peter Armitage back, but she could, at least, avenge him. While Tilly cleared the dishes, she bent her mind to the task and spent some time debating whether the major’s murder might be connected to the case she was already working on.
Feeling that she had insufficient facts to draw any conclusions on that score, she took a deep breath and went back over the events of the previous evening.
She had told Chief Inspector Blount the truth when she’d said that she did not know if the major had learned anything useful from their visit to Watermen’s Hall. Armitage always pla
yed his cards so close to his chest, it was a wonder they weren’t sticking out of his back, but he had appeared more blithe and gay than pensive as they had walked towards Eastcheap. If she had been asked to describe his mood she would almost have said romantic.
She gave a half laugh that turned into a sob. The memory of that starlit walk was too raw and painful to be faced. She stepped away from it, skirted around it, trying to recall an incident from earlier in the evening.
It took a moment or two before she did so and even then she let out a hiss of frustration. Whose was the face, seen in profile, out of the corner of her eye? A face seen recently and out of place as a waiter at Watermen’s Hall. She’d asked the Master thinking it had been one of his staff, but his answer had been far from helpful.
She shook her head, as if to clear away the fog in her brain and decided to concentrate on her own case. If, as a result, she uncovered evidence to link the murders of Martin Cropper and the major, then so much the better.
A glance at the clock told her she had time to call at the caterers before she went to the Rother Rowing Club and for that latter visit she would need the assistance of Lady Ann.
Putting her despair to one side, she rang for Tilly.
Delighted that her mistress had shed her apathy and appeared to have a plan of campaign, she helped Eleanor into her coat.
“Be careful out there, my lady,” she said, as her mistress positioned her hat firmly on her blonde head.
The owner of the catering company gave Eleanor no joy. He claimed that he had sent sixteen men to Watermen’s Hall, that they had all worked for him for several years, were reliable and trustworthy, none of them were new, and no, he would not pass on their addresses.
Eleanor thanked him politely, though the visit to his premises had been a complete waste of time, and drove around to Ann’s.
Making no mention of the tragedy that had befallen her, she invited her friend to join her on a trip to Rotherhithe.
“Whatever for?”
“To go to the rowing club?”
Ann’s artfully plucked eyebrows rose and a shiver rippled across her shoulders. “At this time of year? If you think I’m going on the river, you can think again.”
