by Dawn Harris
'Is that what caused the trouble between you?’
'Oh no, ma’am. I was used to that.’ I raised my brows at him in inquiry. Reluctantly he said, 'I guess you’ve a right to know. Well---he tried to thrash me with a riding crop, because his wife said I’d made a pass at her. It wasn’t the first time he’d struck me, but I’d made up my mind last time that I’d never let him do that again, so I wrested the crop from him. Then I told him his wife had lied, that I wouldn’t dream of making a pass at her. Nor would I. I didn’t like her any more than him. And he fired me on the spot.’ A slow grin spread across his face. 'It struck me as real funny in a way, ma’am. It was his wife who’d lied to him, not me, but I was the one who got fired.’
I looked across at him, thinking of the life he must have had, and I wondered how he’d kept his sense of humour. ‘Why didn’t you leave before?’
'Jobs are not easy to come by in America these days, ma’am. No matter what colour you are.’ He didn’t say it was worse if you were black, but I did not doubt that it was. I glanced back at his letter, and thought of Jean. She would never employ anyone without a reference, and if I gave him a chance, I’d get another lecture about employing lame ducks. I’d told Jean that if anyone came up with some horrendous sob story, I would check it out thoroughly. Only I couldn’t check this story. I had to rely on my own instincts, and they told me he was a good man.
Jean was a close friend, but her views often differed to mine, and I preferred to follow my father’s advice. To listen to what other people said, then make up my own mind. And the fact was, with so many people out of work and desperate for any job, if I advertised for a chauffeur, I would be inundated with applications.
Black didn’t give the appearance of being desperate, even though I knew he must be. Despite everything that had happened to him, he’d maintained his dignity. He must, I thought, have considerable inner strength. But what really settled it was one simple fact. I liked him.
Jean said I liked to help lame ducks. Well, I did feel sorry for people who, through no fault of their own, were struggling to survive the present appalling economic situation. But, I admitted ruefully, I only helped people I liked, and those who did all they could to help themselves. I wasn’t sure what that said about me.
Nevertheless, harmony in my household was vital to me, and I tried to employ people I got on well with. I had no money worries, although I wasn’t particularly wealthy. Archie hadn’t left a Will, but everything had come to Tim and me, being his only close living relatives, apart from Uncle Freddie. I now had the London house, a large sum in savings, and sound investments in property that brought in an excellent income. My father had also left me some money and a small area of land in London.
Having made up my mind, I inquired, ‘Are you free this morning?’ When he said he was, I suggested he drove me to Half Moon Street. ‘And we’ll see how things go.’
He rose to his feet, thanking me in a dignified manner for giving him a chance, and we were soon on our way. He drove smoothly, with care and confidence, and reached our destination in a few minutes, where I asked him to wait for me.
People had to be wealthy to live in this street with its lovely elegant buildings. The Georgian house Edward Greene lived in was divided into swish luxury apartments, and his was on the top floor. As I approached his door a charlady came out carrying a very full waste paper basket. I inquired politely if Mr. Greene was in, and the charlady, uninhibited by the cigarette drooping from one corner of her mouth, informed me, 'No, he ain’t. The bastard’s scarpered.’
CHAPTER FIVE
My heart sank. It hadn’t occurred to me that Edward Greene might have moved, and I asked, ‘Did he leave a forwarding address?’
'He didn’t leave nothing,’ she muttered in disgust. 'No tip, nothing.’
Indicating the basket she carried, I commented, ‘Except a lot of waste paper.’
She sniffed. 'He always left plenty of that.’
'Fond of writing letters, was he?’
‘Not letters. Drawings.’
‘Portraits, do you mean?’
'No. Houses and things. Look I can’t stand here gossiping. The new tenant comes in tomorrow and-----’
I opened my purse and took out two pounds. ‘May I come inside for a minute?’
'Why? What do you want?’ She was clearly suspicious of my motives, but her eyes never wavered from the pound notes.
I decided to do the sensible thing, pay her well and be completely honest. 'To be truthful I’ve never met Mr. Greene, but I must speak to him urgently on a very important matter. I.......’
‘I don’t know where he’s gone.’
'Nevertheless, if you’d tell me what you know about him it might help me find him. I don’t even know what he looks like, except that he’s in his twenties.’
'Oh, that’s Ginger. Mr. Greene's son. Been up to no good, has he?’ A faint sneer in her voice suggested it wouldn’t be the first time.
‘Ginger?’
'His name’s Edward like his father, but I call him Ginger on account of his hair. Not to his face, mind. But I wouldn’t trust him any further than I could throw him. And that’s not far, not with my rheumatism.’ She studied me for a moment before making up her mind. ‘All right, I’ll tell you what I know, only it’ll cost you more than two quid.’
'How much?’
She looked me up and down, assessing from my clothes how much I was good for, and suggested greedily, ‘Ten quid. My hubby’s out of work and I’ve got five kids to feed.’
'All right,’ I said, handing over the money. I didn’t know if she was telling the truth, or whether it would all go on gin, nor did I care. It would be worth ten pounds to find out what the Greenes looked like. I also wanted to go through the waste paper basket.
She led me into a large, elegantly furnished sitting room, left the waste paper basket on a small table, and sat down in a comfortable armchair. I settled for a similar chair, told her my name, learned hers was Elsie Shaw, and that she’d worked here for nine years.
‘The Greenes came here six years ago. Ginger was sixteen then,’ she said, lighting another cigarette. I asked her to describe him and she told me, 'Well, he’s nothing to write home about. He’s taller than his father and skinny, and his face is covered in freckles. He’s clean-shaven, has a cauliflower ear and a small scar on his forehead where he fell off his bike as a kid. Quite well-spoken really but he was always complaining his father kept him short of money.’
‘Did his father have a job?’
'Didn’t need one. He had pots of money. Enough for a car, a yacht, and a cabinet full of silver. Lovely pieces, they were,’ she said wistfully. ‘I know, I cleaned them.’
'He didn’t have a manservant then?’
'No. He made Ginger do everything else. Mr. Greene had the brains and his son, the brawn. You name it, Ginger did it. Cooking, shopping, driving. Lovely car they had too. A blue Lagonda,’ she sighed in blissful remembrance. When I asked if she knew the registration number she gave me a withering look. ‘Course I do.’ She wrote it down and handed it to me. ‘I had a ride in it once, when I twisted my ankle. Ginger drove me home. Mr. Greene couldn’t drive, but he was a real toff. Got me to speak proper, he did. Said he liked people around him to talk right. Course, me old man said I was daft to listen to him, but when I stopped dropping my aitches Mr. Greene put my wages up ten bob a week. My hubby didn’t think I was daft then.’
She was clearly so proud of herself, I said, ‘I’m sure he didn’t.’
‘Mr. Greene was always polite too. That’s why I can’t understand him going off without leaving me a tip. He had lots of lovely things. Rings, diamond tiepins, beautiful clocks and watches, and some smashing paintings.’
'What newspaper did he read?’
'The Times. And he liked those society magazines too.’
‘Did he have friends in society then?’
But she didn’t know anything about his friends. 'No-one ever came to stay. No
women or anything like that. And no-one ever popped in to see him when I was here.’ I thought that extremely odd. 'He wouldn’t let Ginger bring any friends back neither.’
‘What did he do with his time then?’
'He liked going to art galleries and exhibitions, and the theatre. He was very fond of painting and reading too. Ginger preferred pubs and the flicks.’
‘Did they go out together at all?’
'Sometimes. They went sailing in the summer and........’
‘Where did he keep the yacht?’
She screwed up her face in thought. ‘Mr. Greene didn’t talk about the yacht, but Ginger once mentioned some place starting with an L...’
‘Lancing?’ I suggested. ‘Lyme Regis? Lowestoft? Lymington? Or..........’
'That’s it,’ she broke in. ‘Lymington. There used to be a photograph of the yacht on the wall. “Sea Mist” he called it.’
Not exactly original, but perhaps he didn’t want the name to stand out. 'What did he do while you were here?’
‘Sometimes he went out, or he’d sit in his study drawing. Said he was thinking of having a house built, and wanted to design it himself.’ I asked if I could look through the waste paper basket and she sniffed, 'Help yourself.’
The basket was stuffed full of screwed up paper, suggesting a big clear out before moving, but I went through it painstakingly while Mrs. Shaw got on with her work, and just as I was beginning to despair of learning anything of use, I found a note and a drawing. The note, dated the day after Ginger's court case collapsed, was addressed to Mrs. Shaw and signed Edward Greene. Written in a meticulously neat, small hand, he thanked her for services rendered and stated that five pounds was enclosed.
The drawing was a plan of two bedrooms, so detailed it even included the positions of the electric light switches. Thrown away, I assumed, because one line was not quite straight. Mr. Greene senior was clearly a perfectionist.
Right at the bottom of the basket were two magazine photographs of Mrs. Wallis Simpson, the King’s close friend, looking glamorous in evening dress and expensive jewellery. I kept the neatly cut out photographs, and the drawing, but handed Mrs. Shaw the note and envelope addressed to her. As she read it, I said, 'There was no money in it, I’m afraid.’
‘I bet that bugger Ginger took it,’ she burst out in condemnation.
Feeling I’d made up for her loss with my ten pounds, I asked what the father looked like. She was an observant woman and clearly hadn’t missed much about Edward Greene senior.
‘Smart is what I’d call him. Well-dressed, even first thing in the morning. Not a hair out of place, nails kept nice, always clean-shaven. Brown hair, brown eyes, bushy eyebrows and good white teeth.’
‘Did he wear spectacles?’
‘Only for reading.’ I asked how tall he was and she said, ‘About five foot nine, and starting to put on weight. Still, he was fifty-five last birthday.’
‘Any distinctive marks? Moles or warts?’
She shook her head. 'No, nothing like that. You’d never notice him in a crowd, except by his smartness.’
I’d never find him if that was all I had to go on. There were plenty of smartly dressed men in London. Yet, no-one could be that perfect, surely? ‘Wasn’t there anything different about him?’ I asked in desperation. ‘Did he drink? Or smoke a pipe? Or belong to a club?’
'He definitely wasn’t in no club. The only booze he liked was wine with his dinner and he didn’t smoke. He used a walking stick when he went out – on account of his bad back, which he got in the war, he said.’ But lots of men of his age used walking sticks, and I was beginning to think I’d never be able to find him, when she stopped suddenly, her face lighting up as she remembered something. 'There was one thing. He had a very sweet tooth, and was particularly fond of sugared almonds. Ginger used to buy whole jars of it.’
If that was his only weakness, how was I ever going to find them? More in exasperation than hope, I asked, 'Have you no idea where they could have gone?’
'Well, they usually went to France at this time of the year.’
Wonderful, I thought. First Inspector Nabber and now the Greenes. Perhaps they’d bump into each other. ‘Did they usually go in the car?’
‘No. They went in the yacht.’
I learnt too that Ginger's mother had died when he was nine, but Mrs. Shaw had no idea where they’d lived before moving here. Unable to think of anything else to ask, I thanked her and left. Walking slowly down the stairs it seemed to me that this looked like yet another dead end. Although two things were clear. If Ginger had been kept short of money he might well have tried to steal George Crawleigh’s wallet. And, secondly, the Greenes had moved out in great haste the day after Ginger’s court case collapsed.
But why? The charges had been dropped, and even if George Crawleigh hadn’t been killed, and the case had gone ahead, a good barrister would have made mincemeat of the flimsy evidence against Ginger. Edward Greene could certainly afford a barrister. And he could afford to have George Crawleigh silenced too. Only why would he do that? It didn’t make any sense.
In the beginning I’d set out to discover all I could about Edward Greene, hoping that would suggest a motive for the murders. Instead, what I’d learnt puzzled me even more. There was definitely something odd about the Greenes. Six years in one apartment and the charlady had never seen one visitor, not even a casual friend calling in. No-one lived like that. Everyone had friends. Why would Edward Greene senior mind the charlady seeing his friends? And why had they left so hurriedly? What did they have to hide? And why had he cut out two photographs of Mrs. Simpson? This was a lead I would expect Inspector Nabber to investigate further, but he was sunning himself in France. So it was up to me.
First, I intended to find out what I could about George Crawleigh, but what I saw when I stepped out onto the street swept him right out of my head. My Rolls was still there and so was Black, only now he was handcuffed to a policeman.
Storming up to the constable I demanded, 'What the devil is going on here?’
The tall young constable looked down at me. 'Is this your car, madam?’
'It is. Tell me, why have you handcuffed my chauffeur?’
'Oh, he really is your chauffeur is he, madam? Only he’s not in uniform you see, and I thought.........’
'That he was stealing my car? Well, I’m grateful for your vigilance, but perhaps you would release him now.’
The policeman did so and said to Black, 'No hard feelings, I hope, chum?’
‘Don’t give it a thought,’ was the instant response. ‘You’ve got your job to do. But it sure would be swell if we bumped into each other again. I really enjoyed our chat.’
The constable said he’d like that too, and explained to me, ‘We were talking about America, madam. I’ve got a cousin in Boston you see.’ Then, remembering his duties, he advised me, ‘Best if chauffeurs have uniforms, madam. There’s been a spate of car thefts in this area lately.’
'I'll attend to it at once, constable.’
He went on his way and I asked Black to drive me round London for an hour, past all the sights, before returning home. His driving reflected his own character. He was calm, sensible, and able to deal with any situation that arose, as he showed when an old lady stepped off the pavement right in front of us. He braked sharply, drew the car to the side of the road, got out, and instead of ranting at the lady, helped her across the road, then apologised to me for the delay.
I commented, ‘Being handcuffed to a policeman didn’t seem to affect your driving.’
He grinned at me. 'That was nothing, ma’am. Once I’d explained the situation we got to talking about Boston and his cousin. He couldn’t have been nicer.’
‘I can see you know how to handle people.’
‘I find that being calm, reasonable, and polite usually works. With decent people, that is.’
It was then I offered him a month’s trial, which he accepted respectfully. But not wanting him to be
in trouble every time he sat waiting for me in the Rolls, I took the constable’s advice about uniforms, and found a suitable shop.
Once back home again, I got out of the car and told him, ‘I’d like you to start tomorrow, if that is convenient.’
'That suits me, ma’am.’
‘Call me Mrs. York,’ I said with a smile. ‘Ma’am always make me feel about ninety.’ He laughed and when I told him the flat above the garage was empty, he said he’d move in that evening. 'Oh, one more thing,’ I said. ‘I can’t go on calling you Black...’
'That’s my name, Mrs. York. My father always stuck to it, and he was a good man. What was good enough for him is good enough for me.’
'Is he still alive?’
'He died ten years ago. And I lost my mother last year.’
‘Do you have any family in America?’
He shook his head. ‘Not now.’
Perhaps that was why he was happy to stay in Britain. 'What did your father do?’
'He was a servant too.’
I considered what he’d said about his name but it was no good. 'I’m afraid I’m the one with the problem. To keep calling you Black when you are black sounds insulting. What’s your Christian name?’ He’d only used his initial in his application letter.
‘Al.’
‘Short for?’
‘Aloysius.’ And he grinned. 'It's a family name, going way back, and I don’t have a middle name.’
‘In that case, Al it is.’
Going indoors I asked my butler to show Al the chauffeur’s flat, explain about mealtimes, how the house worked, and to introduce him to Connie, Mrs. Evans the cook, and the two maids, Daisy and Emily. 'Al is American and unused to English ways. He’ll need your help to settle in.’
The look on my butler’s face did not please me. He was a slim, dapper man of medium height and if anyone was going to cause trouble in this situation, it would be him. Turning to Al, I said, ‘Come to me if you have any problems. I like my home to be relaxed, cheerful and efficiently run.’ Which I said for Lang’s benefit as much as Al’s.
