by Dawn Harris
I had other things to consider too. Providing a bunch of kids with a decent playing field did not seem important compared to Mr. Taverner’s dreadful situation, or the need to catch the man behind the two murders, or the danger involved in Johnny’s work. Except that it was important to the kids. I’d promised to go down on Monday and, unlike Archie, I kept my promises. I’d have liked Monica to come with me, but she couldn’t leave her father now.
First though, I acquired a new solicitor. Tom Hadley, the man Johnny had recommended, was in his early thirties, and his eyes lit up with enthusiasm when I explained my playing field plan. He promised to start work on it that very morning and to let me know the instant he discovered whether or not the boarded up factory was for sale.
Leaving his office, I walked across the road to where Al was waiting in the Rolls, and we drove straight to the playing field. The older boys we’d seen before came running over and when I talked to them about the plans for the pitches, they all began speaking at once, eager to say what they thought. Holding up my hand I laughingly told them, ‘One at a time please.’ Looking at a boy right in front of me, I asked what he wanted to say.
At which he sighed, ‘Just that yer ever so bootiful, miss.’
His eyes shone in adoration and I murmured a slightly embarrassed, 'Thank you.’
‘Yer look like a film star. Like that Jean ‘arlow.’
'No she ain’t,’ one of the others argued. ‘More like Mae West.’
‘Wish yer was me mum,’ another boy remarked.
He was rather an ugly child with sticking out ears, but I said, ‘I’m sure your mother is lovely.’
He gave a snort of derision. 'No, she ain’t, miss. She’s a right old battleaxe. Got a ‘ell of a wallop on ‘er. Ask me dad. 'E’s frightened of ‘er too.’
The others laughed and then one of them wheedled, ‘Miss, can I ‘ave a ride in yer Rolls?’ Which brought a chorus of requests, and in all there were about twenty boys.
Al stood grinning at me, aware I didn’t know what to say. 'I'll make sure they behave, Mrs. York.’
'Oh, all right,’ I capitulated, thinking of the drab lives they led. A cheer went up, and I said, 'Just this once.’ Instantly deciding that next time I had better come in my Austin 10.
When Al took the first four off, the others pounded me with questions. ‘Are yer very rich, miss?’
‘Course she is,’ another boy said. 'She's got a Rolls ain’t she? And she owns our field.’
'Do yer live in a big house?’
‘Fairly big,’ I said.
'With servants?’ I nodded and he went on wistfully, ‘I bet yer got a bed to yerself too.’ I agreed solemnly that I did have, thankful that Al wasn’t listening. And learnt that this boy shared his with two brothers.
Jack Finch, the man I’d met when I came before, made his way onto the field then. He was a good looking middle-aged man, clean shaven with equally clean clothes, but he leant heavily on a stick, walking slowly. The boys told him excitedly of their promised treat and glancing at me in surprise, he told the boys, ‘Mind you behave yourselves, or you’ll have me to answer to.’
They promised to do so in a way that told me they respected Mr. Finch, but were not afraid of him. He then invited me back to his house, where we could sit down and talk. The house was at one end of the field and when Al returned, I told him where I would be, and watched him take four more boys for their ride.
As we walked slowly back to his home, Jack Finch warned me, 'Those boys will mess up your car with their dirty boots.’ I told him not to worry and I followed him into a house which consisted of two rooms downstairs and a scullery at the back. The front step was spotless, as was the house.
I was offered the best chair and a cup of tea. ‘We don’t have fancy cups, mind.’ Assuring him truthfully that it didn’t matter, I admired what was the only ornament in the room, a large blue and white plate. He smiled, ‘Nice isn’t it. Belonged to my wife’s grandmother.’
He made the tea, and as we sat drinking it, I asked where he came from, as he didn’t have a cockney accent. 'The west country,’ he said.
‘Really?’ I exclaimed, and learnt he was from Exeter, only a few miles from where I had grown up. 'My wife’s from round here and I lost my job when I had this accident. Once my leg gets better, I’ll find something,’ he said confidently. 'My wife’s the breadwinner at the moment. Got a job scrubbing floors in the mornings, and working in a shop in the afternoons. I look after the kids. Not that I mind, but it’s a man’s place to put food on the table.’
He told me he’d set up a small committee of parents to look after the sports field, and he’d got prices for all the equipment as I’d requested. Taking some papers from his pocket he showed me the quotes for what was needed, including a good roller, mower, goal posts and nets, footballs and cricket gear. ‘I think they’re fair,’ he said.
'All right, Mr. Finch. Go ahead then. If you send me the invoices I’ll see they’re paid promptly.’ I opened my handbag and took out a visiting card which gave my address and telephone number.
When I handed it to him, he said somewhat gruffly, 'I wanted to thank you for what you’re doing, Mrs. York. I can’t tell you how much this means to the kids. They’ve talked of nothing else ever since you first came here. Parents round here will do anything to keep them out of the clutches of those wretched Blackshirts. Idle kids are easy prey for those monsters. And we don’t want any Hitler Youth here.’
‘No. Nor anywhere else in Britain. I’m glad I can do something to help.’
‘One thing puzzles us all....’
'What’s that?’
‘To be honest, we’re all wondering why you’re doing it. It’s going to cost you a lot of money.’
He was clearly a proud man, the kind who couldn’t bear to take charity. I would have to tread very carefully if I offered him the manager’s job, which was already in my mind. He was, however, happy for anyone to help these boys, and I told him exactly how I felt. 'What they need is work, and I wish I could give them all jobs. But I can’t. I’m doing this because it is the only thing I can do to help them.’ And because I couldn’t stand by and do nothing when I had so much and they had so little. I didn’t actually say that, but from the look on his face, I think he understood.
When Al drove me away from those dreary streets I couldn’t help thinking how lucky I was to have been born into a comfortable middle-class household. Into a life these boys could not even imagine. My father always said that people in every class were the same mixture of the clever, the decent, the mediocre, the bad, and the downright obnoxious. Archie's father, a widower, came into the last category, telling me to my face that I was not good enough for his son. He’d died before Tim was born and I did not miss him. But I hoped Uncle Freddie, whose title Tim would inherit one day, would live for many years yet; he was a warm and generous man, and we had hit it off right away.
Jack Finch was another good man, and just the person I needed to watch over the sports field project. And the speed with which Mr. Hadley, my new solicitor, got on with things, put him in the same category. Late that afternoon he telephoned to tell me the boarded-up factory was for sale, and at a reasonable price. It would take time to set up, but he suggested I had the place surveyed and valued. He knew someone who, for a worthwhile cause like this, would do it straightaway. Having told him to go ahead I put the receiver down with a happy smile on my face. With luck the Edward Addingham sports club would soon be up and running.
Things were racing along at a hectic pace with the playing field project, and I was delighted with that. If only the murders were as easy to solve. I wished the police would catch up with Charlie Jones. As Al said, Jones wouldn’t take the rap alone, he’d soon tell the police who’d paid him to do the killings. Evidence that would free Monica’s father from suspicion.
That evening, once Tim was in bed and asleep, I went through all I knew about the murders in the hope I’d missed something, but if there was anythin
g, I couldn’t see it. If only I’d been able to follow Ginger all the way home when I’d seen him driving the blue Lagonda. Which I would have if it hadn’t been for that policeman on point duty. And I sighed. Somehow I had to find the Greenes. I absolutely had to. But how? I simply didn’t know where to start.
I spent the following morning with Tim, and we had just finished lunch, when Mr. Taverner telephoned. ‘Liddy, I have some bad news. The police fished Charlie Jones’s body out of the Thames this morning.’
‘Oh no,’ I groaned.
‘Someone shot him.’ I closed my eyes in despair, not knowing what to say. I’d wanted the police to find Jones, and now they had. But this wouldn’t clear Mr. Taverner’s name; it was more likely to do the opposite.
‘Did – did Burns tell you?’
‘No. His Sergeant did. He said a man walking his dog saw the body in the river and called the police.’
‘Had he been in the water long?’
'Only a few hours, they think.' And he went on, ‘I’m at work at present, and that’s where I’m staying. Burns is bound to accuse me of shooting Jones to prevent him spilling the beans. Well, I didn’t kill him, so---’
‘I’m absolutely certain you didn’t.’
‘Thanks, Liddy,’ he said, with real gratitude. ‘You can’t imagine what that means to me.’
He didn’t normally hold my opinions in high esteem, I mused ruefully, but in this situation he was grateful for any scrap of comfort. But all I said was, ‘What will you do now?’
‘Carry on normally. Only I’m worried about Monica. When I told her about Jones, she wanted to rush straight over here, but you can see how that would look to Burns if he called on me. So I’ve persuaded her to stay at work, but she’s in a bit of a state, and Jean had just gone off to the PDSA for the afternoon.’
Of course, I thought, it’s Tuesday. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll go straight over.’
I heard him sigh in relief. ‘Would you, Liddy. I’d be so grateful.’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
‘Thanks. It’ll take a load off my mind.’
Peter Crawley had set up the House of Savaye in Bruton Street, and when I arrived Monica was in her office, staring unseeingly at some papers on her desk. As I shut the door, she took one look at me and burst into tears. 'The police will never believe daddy, not now Jones is dead.’ I did what I could to console her, but she was right. The brainless Burns would be rubbing his hands together in glee, certain that Jones’s death proved Mr. Taverner’s guilt.
With the fashion show just a week away Monica had a lot to do, and I helped where I could. She rang her father later but, surprisingly, Burns had not been to see him.
‘Perhaps they have evidence leading to someone else,’ I suggested hopefully. That thought did cheer her a little, and helped her to concentrate on her work. When she finished at five I dropped her off at Berkeley Square, but I didn’t drive straight home afterwards. The distress and anxiety of the whole afternoon had left me feeling in need of some fresh air. Thus I parked the car in a street close to Hyde Park and went for a walk.
After half an hour I felt much better, and was about to go home when I saw Jean sitting on a bench with her two cairn terriers by her side. Her chauffeur often took the dogs for a walk, but Tuesday was his day off, and when she got back from her stint at the PDSA, she always took the dogs out. Whatever else she might neglect, it was never the dogs. She adored them.
She had her back to me, and was obviously unaware of my presence. I was too far away to call out, an action she would disapprove of anyway, and as I headed towards her, she checked her watch, got to her feet, spoke to the dogs, and walked off in the opposite direction. The path she took suggested she was going home. I didn’t go after her as it would soon be time for dinner. For her as well as myself. But as I approached the seat I saw she’d left something on it. A letter, which I assumed she’d meant to post while she was out.
I was just thinking I could post it for her, when someone sat down on the seat. A tall young man, quite well dressed, who didn’t appear to have noticed the letter. He wore a trilby, spectacles and had a light-coloured moustache. I was about to rush up and explain the letter had been accidentally left behind, when he removed his hat and put it over the letter. His hair, which had been largely hidden by his hat, was very short at the back and sides, but rather thick and bushy on top. And in colour, it was a fiery ginger.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I told myself not to be ridiculous, it couldn’t be Ginger Greene. I’d only seen him once, driving the Lagonda, but I knew from the charlady that both the Greenes were clean-shaven. And there must be hundreds, if not thousands, of ginger-haired young men in London. This one had seen Jean accidentally leave the envelope behind and was about to take what did not belong to him, hoping there was something of value inside. But, as this was precisely what Ginger must have hoped for when he tried to steal George Crawleigh’s wallet, I stood under a tree, glanced at my wrist watch as if waiting for someone, and surreptitiously kept an eye on him.
He waited for a break in the stream of people walking past the bench, then picked up the trilby and letter together, hurriedly stuffed the envelope into his pocket, put his hat on, and walked off. After a few moments I followed him. There were too many people about for him to notice me, and in any case, he didn’t look back. Not once. I followed him across the park and when he reached the road and looked to his left, I saw he’d removed his spectacles and moustache. And my heart turned somersaults. It was Ginger all right, no question.
I continued to follow him, hoping he’d lead me to his home. Instead he went into the Lyons Corner House at Marble Arch, and straight to the largest of the three cafes, in the manner of a man who had done so many times before. The place was pretty full, the gypsy orchestra, employed to entertain customers, was playing a lively tune, and the Nippies, as the waitresses were called, were taking and serving orders with a smile.
There were a few empty tables, and when he’d made his choice, I settled on another some way behind him. He had his back to me and couldn’t see me. There was a man at a table opposite Ginger, who was facing in my direction, which prevented me glancing that way too often, but thankfully he soon finished his meal and left shortly afterwards.
Ginger didn’t seem to be in a hurry, giving me plenty of time to drink the coffee I’d ordered. A Nippy brought his order, and when he finally got up to leave, I followed. He walked straight to a nearby car park, jumped into the same blue Lagonda we’d chased across London, and drove off.
Frantically I looked round for a taxi, but there wasn’t a sign of one, and he was soon out of sight. I banged my fists on a nearby wall, several times, in sheer frustration. If only I’d parked my car here too. Twice I’d had a chance to follow him and find out where he lived, and twice I’d failed. Which made me a pretty useless detective, I thought ruefully.
I walked back to my car, drove home, bathed Tim, put him to bed and read him a story. After dinner I listened to some band music on the wireless, thinking about Jean and the episode with Ginger. There was something odd about what I’d seen and, at first, I couldn’t grasp what it was. Then, all of a sudden, it came to me. Ginger had picked up the letter and put it straight into his pocket. At no time had he stopped to see what was inside; not then, or when I followed him, or in the Lyons Corner House.
But why hadn’t he opened it? Surely, that’s the first thing a thief would do; look to see if the envelope contained anything of value. Yet Ginger had not. Unless---- and my heart began to pound --- unless he already knew what was in it. Only then did the truth hit me. He hadn’t stolen the letter at all. Jean had got up and walked off seconds before he reached the seat. She’d deliberately left it there for him to pick up. That was why she’d left when she did. I grappled with what that meant, trying to find any explanation other than the obvious one. But it was useless. It could only mean one thing. Ginger was blackmailing her.
Nor was this the first payme
nt, or he’d have checked to see if the money was there. Which meant he already knew her well enough to be sure that it was. I clenched my fists in rage at the thought of Jean being forced to give the Greenes money. It didn’t take me long to work out why she was being blackmailed. She must be having an affair. And what’s more I knew who with. She’d always liked Bobby Smythe, an extremely good-looking, rather shy, distant and penniless cousin of a Duke. Jean could have married him, but hadn’t. He’d joined the Royal Air Force, and I couldn’t see her living on a pilot officer’s pay. He’d been posted abroad for the last couple of years, but had returned to England about three months ago and was now stationed at Kenley. Jean had casually mentioned to me that with him being so close to central London he was able to escort her to the theatre or cinema when Arthur was busy.
I had sometimes wondered how much she really cared for Arthur. He was totally besotted with her, but I was pretty sure she wouldn’t have married him if he hadn’t been wealthy and able to give her everything she wanted. They had a beautiful London home, far grander than my own, and an estate in the country, with servants galore. Jean had a considerable wardrobe of expensive clothes, and whenever she mentioned a piece of jewellery had taken her fancy, Arthur would buy it for her. Sometimes friends invited them on trips abroad on their luxury yachts, and if Arthur was busy, she would go while he stayed at home, working. Not that he needed to work, but he said he couldn’t bear to idle his life away, and being both highly intelligent and intensely patriotic, the secret service suited him perfectly.
Arthur had given Jean the wealth and comfort she’d lost when her father was ruined by the fraudulent actions of his finance director. If she was having an affair, she’d be desperate to stop Arthur finding out. Easy meat for professional blackmailers with a luxurious lifestyle to keep up. Edward Greene, according to the charlady, had the brains, so he probably made the threats, while Ginger collected the money, disguised with spectacles and moustache. So that if Jean went to the police, her description of him would include those two things.
