‘What sort of action?’ William’s benign smile faded.
Flora hesitated. If the Government were watching them, what these women were planning might be taken as a threat. One which William would be honour-bound to report. ‘Will what I tell you be repeated in the offices of Whitehall and used against them?’
‘Not necessarily.’ His expression remained guarded, but his level of interest piqued. ‘If this new group intend causing real trouble, they’ll garner less sympathy for their cause than they do already.’ He held the coffee pot in the air, an eyebrow raised in enquiry.
‘In which case, I’m unable to put your mind at rest.’ Flora slid her cup closer for a refill, then thought better of it when her stomach protested and shook her head. ‘Miss Sharp talked of disrupting meetings in the Commons, and even smashing the windows of government officials’ houses.’
‘I don’t like the sound of that.’ William stirred his coffee with a rhythmic tinkling of silver on china. ‘Destroying private property will simply make them into criminals.’
‘I agree; I certainly shan’t be chaining myself to any railings.’
‘Glad to hear it. Although I sympathize with their frustration. Were you aware there are just as many people against women’s suffrage as are in favour? Not all men have the right to vote either; almost sixty percent of those who pay low rents and don’t own property for instance. Parliament won’t give women the vote over the ordinary working man.’
‘I knew not everyone could vote, but I had no idea the figure was that high.’
‘It is, and I foresee no immediate change to that either. I understand the women’s frustration after forty years of campaigning, but violence is not the way to sway public opinion.’
‘Do you think women will ever get the vote?’
‘I do, but by the natural evolution of a modern society – and patience.’
‘That’s a politician’s answer,’ Flora said. ‘Promising everything will come to those who wait, but in the meantime giving away nothing.’
‘Jam tomorrow, you mean?’ William tapped his copy of The Times that sat, neatly ironed beside his plate. ‘There’s a report of the murder in Old Barrack Yard in the newspaper, together with an artist’s sketch of the victim.’
‘Does it say who she was?’ Her more compassionate side hoped it looked nothing like Evangeline Lange.
‘No, she still hasn’t been named.’ William pushed the paper towards her, where it lay beckoning on the tablecloth. ‘Dreadful really. The report suggests that because she was found outside a public house, she must have dubious morals.’
‘How could they make such an assumption?’ Flora’s cup clattered into its saucer and she reached for the newspaper.
The story of the body found in Old Barrack Yard hadn’t even made the front page but occupied page five, beneath a small black headline that read, ‘Woman Done to Death Outside Public House’, below which was a pen-and-ink drawing of a female face with ill-defined features. Apart from the dark hair, the sketch bore little more than a passing resemblance to Miss Lange.
‘That’s hacks for you,’ William said, distracting her. ‘With no facts to hand they make them up. And if shades of the Ripper can be included somewhere, even better. Sensationalism sells newspapers, I’m afraid.’
‘Surely they don’t imagine putting her fate down as a hazard of her employment means they need not investigate it properly?’ Her knuckles whitened on the page as her ire rose. ‘No one knows if she was a – a…’ Flora searched for a suitable phrase. ‘A lady of the night. She’s still someone’s daughter, wife, or sweetheart.’
‘Don’t upset yourself, Flora. After all, it isn’t as if you knew her.’
‘Why does everyone always say that?’ Flora pouted. ‘What does it matter whether she was a stranger or a close relative? She was a human being whose life has been cut prematurely short. I’m being a compassionate, concerned citizen.’
William’s response was cut off at Randall’s arrival with a thin pile of letters he placed beside William’s plate, a single envelope next to Flora’s. At the sound of the doorbell, he bowed quickly and left.
‘That’ll be Gordon, I expect.’ William shuffled through the pile of letters. ‘He’s always dead on time.’
Flora’ spirits lifted at the sight of Bunny’s handwriting on the letter and momentarily the newspaper was forgotten. ‘Your Mr Gordon is very conscientious, isn’t he?’ she said carefully, recalling what Sally had said about his late night visit. ‘Are all your employees like him?’
‘He does have an uncanny knack of being always available. Whenever I want a quiet moment in my office, somehow I always find him at the door. Why do you ask? Did he catch you doing something you would rather not reveal, Flora?’
‘Well no, I—’ Did he know she had eavesdropped on him and Arthur Crabbe yesterday?
‘Don’t answer that,’ William cut across her, laughing. ‘I wasn’t being serious.’
She exhaled a relieved sigh. ‘It’s just that Sally told me he called here when we were at the theatre the other night.’ Flora studied his face for a reaction. ‘Something about needing some papers from your study.’
William’s eyes darkened and the corner of the left one twitched. ‘Ah, yes. I had completely forgotten.’ He scraped back his chair and fiddled with his shirt cuff. ‘I’m taking luncheon with Lord Lansdowne, and it’s bound to go on all afternoon.’
‘Oh? No Prime Minister today? Have you been demoted?’
‘Sauce.’ He gave a mock-affronted sniff. ‘Balfour is busy with domestic problems at the moment, so he tends to leave policy to his Foreign Secretary.’
He consulted his pocket watch, then checked it against the clock. The action so reminiscent of Riordan Maguire, Flora’s heart twisted. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t remove the man who had raised her from the box in her head labelled ‘father’.
‘We’re having problems with foreign agitators starting fights in the East End, so I might be late home again tonight.’ William made for the door, his unopened post in his hand. ‘Better not keep Gordon waiting, he gets edgy if I spoil his schedule.’ He reached for the doorknob, then turned back, his shoulders slumped. ‘I feel awful for neglecting you, Flora. Will you be able to amuse yourself again today?’
‘I’m sure I’ll think of something,’ Flora instilled disappointment into her voice, but secretly she relished the time to herself. Especially now she had an interesting case to investigate. ‘Please don’t worry, it cannot be helped.’
‘I’ll do my utmost to be back in time for dinner.’
‘I’ll look forward to it. Now go, Gordon is waiting.’ For reasons she couldn't define it came as a relief not to have to exchange pleasantries with William's assistant.
Flora read the article properly this time, which proved unenlightening, the journalist’s literary bent having ended with the lurid headline, followed by a brief, uninformative description of the scene and the fact that, so far, no witnesses had come forward.
She laid the paper down again with a sigh. There must be some way she could find out the identity of the woman, which would hopefully prove Evangeline Lange was still alive and well.
Although the prospect didn’t appeal, she made the only decision which made sense. She would go to Cannon Row and ask to speak to Inspector Maddox. Not that what she had seen amounted to much, though if the dead woman was Evangeline Lange, the police would have somewhere to begin in finding out what had happened to her.
*
‘Where are we going today, Miss Flora?’ Sally followed her into the lobby, her chin tucked in as she fastened her coat. Sally always called her ‘Miss Flora’ when angling for something, and ‘Missus’ when expressing criticism or annoyance.
‘I’ve an errand to run this morning, Sally. Would you ask Mr Dunne to summon a cab?’ She folded Bunny’s letter and slipped it into her coat pocket, intending to read it on the way to the police station. ‘How would you like the morning off? A w
alk in the park might be pleasant.’
‘It’s freezing out there, Missus.’ Sally’s mouth clamped into a thin line. ‘You wouldn’t want me to go catching a cold and not be able to work.’
‘No, we wouldn’t want that.’ Flora thought quickly as she approached the porter’s desk. ‘If I let you have some of your wages, you could browse those shops we saw yesterday?’
‘Oh well, that’s different.’ Sally’s good humour returned, just as Flora’s attention was caught by the sound of brisk footsteps from above as Arthur Crabbe descended the stairs.
‘Good morning, Mr Crabbe.’ Flora took in his slightly dishevelled appearance which looked as if he had dressed in a hurry. His shirt collar was limp and an angry-looking graze about an inch long sat beside his mouth.
He blinked, startled at first, then as an afterthought raised his hat. ‘Mrs Harrington.’ He inclined his head, his smile forced as he made his way to the porter’s desk. ‘I trust you’re enjoying your stay?’ He collected his post from the piles lined up on the desk, giving each envelope a cursory glance.
‘Apart from what happened the other night, I am rather.’ Flora nodded towards the newspaper he held in his hand, folded open to the sketch of the murder victim. ‘Mr Osborne and I were discussing that same report over breakfast.’
‘Ah, yes. Most unfortunate.’ Mr Crabbe eyed the door to the apartment she had just left. ‘Is Mr Osborne at home? I have something I need to discuss with him.’ He nodded to Sally, who bobbed a curtsey though she made no move to leave.
‘He’s already left for the office with Mr Gordon,’ Flora said. ‘Is it important?’
‘Never mind.’ He frowned, confused for a moment as if he hadn’t thought of this possibility. ‘I shall most likely catch him later.’
‘You know,’ Flora halted him as he was about to turn away, ‘I thought the sketch of the dead woman looked familiar.’ She indicated the newspaper. ‘In fact, it reminded me of someone I saw leaving the building the other day.’
‘What?’ The colour left his face as he followed Flora’s look. ‘I doubt that. This sketch could be of anyone.’ He tucked the newspaper beneath his arm so the picture was no longer visible. ‘Ah well, I had better get off, I’m running later than I thought.’
Mr Dunne sprang forward and held open the door for him, but Mr Crabbe barely acknowledged him.
‘Your motor taxi is waiting outside, Miss.’ Dunne released the door that flapped shut and returned to the counter. ‘Hope that’s all right for you.’
‘Oh, yes, I don’t mind motor cars.’ Flora nodded her thanks. ‘My husband is something of an enthusiast.’
‘Looked like Mr C had another bad night.’
‘Really?’ Flora turned to watch Mr Crabb’s receding figure as he descended the front steps. ‘What do you mean by another one?’
‘Insomnia, you know.’ He rested an elbow on the counter and leaned conspiratorially towards her. ‘Takes himself off for late night walks on occasion. He’s out after midnight sometimes.’
‘Do you happen to know if he took one of these walks on the evening of the murder?’ Flora drifted back to the counter, aware of Sally nearby in full listening pose. Flora contemplated dismissing her but didn’t want to distract Mr Dunne from their conversation.
‘Let me see now.’ He rested a plump finger against his cheek, making a dent in the flesh. ‘I was about to go off duty when Mr Crabbe arrived back. It were about the same time those policemen turned up next door.’ The reason for her question seemed to hit him in a rush and he blinked. ‘What can you be suggesting, Miss?’
‘Nothing at all.’ Flora broke eye contact and made a show of putting on her gloves. ‘You work long hours, Mr Dunne, and have a lot of responsibility. Your employers must think a lot of you?’
‘I hope I give satisfaction, Miss.’ Dunne straightened, his chest inflating slightly. ‘I get three hours off in the afternoons. Anyone who needs me then can ring my doorbell if it’s urgent.’
‘I’m sure you never neglect your post longer than is required.’ Flora inwardly cringed at her own ingratiating tone. ‘Were you on duty when Mr Crabbe’s visitor arrived that day?’
‘I was, Miss, but I had to go and see to Lady Braeburn’s squeaky door, so I don’t remember no visitors.’
‘No matter, I must have been mistaken.’ Flora made a show of pulling on her gloves. ‘What is Mrs Crabbe like?’ She recalled William had mentioned the existence of a wife. ‘I cannot recall seeing her.’
‘You most likely won’t, Miss.’ Dunne’s voice softened to a whisper. ‘She’s a lady who enjoys delicate health as they say. She rarely ventures out.’ The sound of a buzzer from the desk distracted him. ‘Excuse me, Miss, that’s Lady Braeburn again. I must see what she wants.’
‘I know what you’re thinking.’ Sally sidled up to her when the porter had disappeared through the office door. ‘Just because Mr Crabbe’s a poor sleeper don’t – I mean doesn’t prove he killed anyone.’
‘How did you know that’s what I was thinking?’ Flora narrowed her eyes.
‘The kitchen staff at home told me you like to do a bit of sleuthing from time to time.’
‘Really?’ Flora drew out the word. ‘Did you also hear I was quite successful at it?’
‘No. Only that you had to be rescued by Mr Bunny. Twice.’
Flora opened her mouth and then closed it again, aware there was no point arguing with Sally. ‘What do you think happened?’ She glanced through the front door where her taxi idled at the kerb. ‘Man with sickly wife has a love affair that goes wrong, so he quietens his rejected amour before she reveals all to his wife?’
‘Him?’ Sally snorted. ‘Not the type, but that don’t prove anything either.’
‘Doesn’t prove anything, Sally.’
‘That’s what I said.’ She frowned. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you this morning, Miss?’
‘Quite sure, and don’t worry, it’s nowhere you would like to go, I assure you.’
Flora climbed into the waiting taxi, imagining Sally’s expression if she said she was on her way to a police station.
Chapter 11
Flora opened Bunny’s letter as the motor taxi made its way along Constitution Hill and into the Mall. Savouring the feel of the embossed notepaper, she conjured an image of him seated at his desk beneath the window that overlooked the river. They had not been separated for more than a few hours since their marriage two years before, and she hadn’t realized how much she would miss him until now.
He had never had occasion to write to her since their wedding, thus the brevity of the note came as a disappointment. She had hoped for an intimate missive she might have stored away in a scented pasteboard box to mull over at her leisure. Her dismay turned into a warm glow of anticipation when she reached the last sentence, which spoke of his intention to come up to town sometime during the week to have luncheon with her and William.
The taxi swayed sharply as the driver took them past Charing Cross Station, dodging between two horsebuses as it careered into Northumberland Avenue. Flora held her breath, her left hand clenched around the leather strap above her head. Her heart had only just returned to its normal rhythm when the driver brought the motor to a halt on the Victoria Embankment.
Scotland Yard Police Headquarters resembled a French château with elements of a medieval fortress. White stripes of Portland stone contrasted with the red brickwork that formed the two main cubes of brick, with turrets at various corners topped by minarets. Shaw’s masterpiece was less than five years old, so showed none of the effects of coal smoke that marred the adjoining buildings.
The driver did not pause on the riverside as Flora expected, instead, he guided the cab round to a back street past an empty lot where workmen crawled over scaffolding, the traffic sounds obliterated by the noise the builders made.
‘What will this be when it’s finished?’ Flora alighted onto the pavement and handed a shilling to the driver.
‘Seems that new police building ain’t large enough, another one is going up the same size.’ He pointed his crop to a stone building on the corner. ‘Cannon Row Police Station is on the corner there. I stopped here so you wouldn’t have to walk past the building site.’
‘I see, thank you.’ Flora hitched her skirt and stepped over several discarded scaffolding planks in the road.
‘I suggest you walk back to the river if you want a cab back.’ He gave a curt nod, and clucked his tongue at the horse, that clopped away back to the main road.
Flora headed for a heavy black street door opening into a dark corridor that smelled strongly of carbolic soap; the walls tiled to half-height in dark blue, topped by shiny yellow paint. With her bag gripped in front of her with both hands, she started straight ahead, her boots making loud clicks across the flagstone floor.
The hallway opened out into a room about fifteen feet square with barred windows at shoulder height. Rows of pew-like benches were set facing a wooden platform at one end, a desk like a pulpit on top where a policeman stood, his head bent over a pile of papers.
A woman in black with a small child occupied one of the benches set halfway along the room, while several rows back, two youngish men sat. One wore workmen’s overalls while the other was attired in an expensive suit, an equally well-tailored overcoat draped over one arm. Another middle-aged gentleman sat with his feet spread and a cane propped between his knees, having belligerently refused to remove his top hat.
Flora wondered briefly what had brought each of them there, then decided she didn’t want to know.
‘Can I help you, Miss?’ The policeman behind the desk looked up briefly, his arm protectively covering the ledger in front of him.
‘I’d like to speak to Inspector Maddox.’ Flora brandished the card she had purloined from William.
‘Is he expecting you?’ He fingered the card deferentially.
‘Er not exactly, however, I spoke to him yesterday about the murder in Old Barrack Yard.’ Flora kept her voice low but the room seemed to hold its breath, listening.
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