A smile fell over Irene’s lips as she quietly closed the bedroom door. Before she could overthink about Joe and how decent and wonderful he was, she’d tucked into bed and fallen asleep.
* * * * *
At ten o’clock, Irene and Joe strode up the steps to the apartment building by Kensington Gardens, ready to find out all about this missing statue and to hopefully calm Mrs. Beauchamp’s nerves.
“Where is Freddie?” Irene asked as they approached the empty doorway. “Or any other doorman, for that matter?”
Joe shrugged. “Perhaps on a break?”
“Hm.” Irene crouched to observe the place a doorman should’ve been standing and found a drop of drying, slimy water.
“Freddie is certainly here,” she observed, standing. “But it appears as if he’s been whisked from his post.”
They continued into the building and into the lift, standing nervously side by side as the lift operator took them to the fifth floor.
They quickly approached 5A, and Irene knocked on the door. The maid opened it, and as soon as Irene saw her face, she pushed through the door. Molly’s eyes were wide and terrified, and she held Wilson the dog by the collar, preventing him from barking or making a fuss.
As soon as Irene and Joe stepped into the flat, yelling erupted from the sitting area, prompting them to rush into the room.
Mrs. Beauchamp had poor Freddie trapped on the couch while she jabbed a finger in his face.
“I know you’ve taken it,” she screamed. “Where is it?”
“I haven’t, ma’am,” the boy pleaded, sinking into the cushions. “I swear I haven’t taken anything!”
Irene wedged in between them and held out her hands. “Mrs. Beauchamp, sit down at once.”
“I will not!”
“You will!” Irene stared her down, trying to emulate her father’s famous look of command and authority.
Mrs. Beauchamp seemed to realize that her outburst was unbecoming because she cleared her throat and sunk gently down into a nearby chair, sitting prim and proper, yet stiff and seething with anger.
Once she was subdued, Irene turned to Freddie. “Have you taken the statue?”
“No!”
Mrs. Beauchamp rose from her seat and attacked the boy again. “Then how did you know which statue I was referring to?” She looked at Irene, explaining the situation as a child would to a parent. “He told me he didn’t take ‘the woman’ before I even told him what was missing.”
Irene held her hand out, palm up, and lowered it as if commanding a dog. Mrs. Beauchamp sat once more and let out a tense breath.
Joe stood off to the side, scribbling the entire conversation into his notebook, frantically trying to keep up. Meanwhile, Irene turned back to Freddie, ready for his explanation.
“Molly told me,” Freddie stammered. “She was worried about where it had gone, and she asked me if I had any idea. I don’t, though!”
Irene studied Freddie hard, but the boy was so nervous she couldn’t tell if his state was due to the fact that he was hiding something or because Mrs. Beauchamp simply terrified him.
“Do you have keys to any of the flats?” Irene asked him.
He shook his head. “I can’t even be away from my post for too long because someone is bound to notice and call my boss. In fact, I should be back there right now–”
“You’re not going anywhere, thief,” Mrs. Beauchamp barked, waving a finger.
Irene ignored her. “What time are you finished your shift?”
“Half-past six,” he said.
“Fine,” she said. “You may go.”
“Miss Holmes!” Mrs. Beauchamp stood in a fury again, and Irene spun to her.
“Mrs. Beauchamp,” she snapped. “If you continue this behaviour, then I will never be able to find your statue. Sit down, and we can talk like proper adults.”
Mrs. Beauchamp plunked back down in the chair while Freddie scampered out of the room.
“Wonderful,” Irene said, sarcasm oozing over the word. “Now, tell me which statue is missing.”
“There was a dancing woman on that shelf, in the corner,” she stated, hand on her forehead as if the entire ordeal had given her a headache.
Irene wandered over to the shelf in question but already knew the statue was not there from her first observation a few days ago. “You just noticed this missing last night?”
“Yes.”
“That is odd,” she said, turning to Mrs. Beauchamp and clasping her hands behind her back. “Because when Doctor Watson and I were here for our first visit, and I examined all the antiques on the shelves, that statue was not there.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, it was.”
“I assure you that it was not.” Irene held out her hand, and Joe handed her a picture she’d taken of the shelf. She gave it to Mrs. Beauchamp, and the woman inspected it, lowering it to her lap after a moment.
“My goodness...” she breathed. “It’s not there. Then where is it? When was it taken? Why didn’t you notice it missing earlier?”
Irene raised a brow. “I do not know the inventory of your collection, and someone has made these look as if they should be spaced out as they are. Someone has done their work very well.”
Irene took the rest of the photos and matched them to their shelves. She came to a wide one by the window and held up the picture to compare. A statue of a stag was turned ever so slightly, and there was a mark in the thin layer of dust as if the stag had been picked up and set down in a failed attempt to place it in the exact spot it came from.
She dropped to the floor to study the carpet without hesitation, and Mrs. Beauchamp let out a startled gasp. Irene slithered around, looking under furniture in an attempt to find any sort of clues.
Winston, the Beauchamps’ Setter, trotted over to her and sniffed her hair, then the carpet where her hands were.
“Joe,” Irene said, but Joe had already walked around the couch to deal with the dog. He gently called the dog away as Irene resumed her search.
A small, long object was caught in the carpet fibres under the couch, and Irene reached under and plucked it from the ground. She stood and held the tiny bit of straw up to the light.
“Do you own or ride horses, Mrs. Beauchamp?” Irene asked.
“No,” she replied. “I never had much interest.”
Irene gave Joe the straw, and he tucked into his notebook. Straw was a curious thing to find in the middle of a Kensington flat, and even more odd when the residents made no trips out to any sort of stable. Unfortunately, because the Beauchamps didn’t appear to keep very good track of all their prized possessions, Irene had trouble figuring out if anything more had been taken. The stag had been moved, but not from dusting.
“I need cocoa powder,” she announced after surveying the scene once more.
Mrs. Beauchamp hesitated until Irene turned to her expectantly.
“Molly!” Mrs. Beauchamp cried. “Fetch us the cocoa power.”
The maid did as requested, and Irene took a few pinches, dusting it on the statue. She heard Mrs. Beauchamp protest behind her, but Joe mumbled an explanation that seemed to appease the woman. Once Irene was done, she observed the fingerprints. Large swirls on equally large fingers.
She grabbed Mrs. Beauchamp’s wrist and flipped her hand over, but her fingers weren’t a match. Irene held her hand out for Molly to do the same, and the maid looked exceptionally nervous but did as asked. Her prints were not a match either.
“Mrs. Beauchamp,” Irene said. “Do you happen to know what your husband’s fingerprints look like?”
The woman blinked at Irene for a moment before shaking her head. “Of course not. That would be odd.”
“Not really. Joe here has little swirls on his fingers, similar to this person.”
“So, what does this mean?” Mrs. Beauchamp asked.
“It means that this statue has been moved recently and no one in this room did it, and if these fingerprints aren’t a match to your h
usband’s, then that raises a whole other collection of questions.” Irene sat in the chair across from Mrs. Beauchamp. “I need you to do something that is of the utmost importance.”
“Oh, I don’t know what use I’ll be now,” she sighed, thin frame wilting with defeat.
“You will be of great use,” Irene assured her. “I need you to figure out if anything else has gone missing from the other tenants. If so, inventory them for me, on a sheet of paper. When you’ve done that, telephone me, and we shall go from there.”
“You are certain that this has something to do with Mr. Barry’s disappearance?” she asked.
Irene nodded. “I think your missing woman has everything do to with Mr. Barry.”
* * * * *
Irene and Joe sat in the Vauxhall, sharing what was left of the cakes from the tea party. Irene had three theories as to what was happening with strange Mr. Barry and knew that Freddie would be a small key to the entire mystery.
At half-past six on the dot, Freddie came out of the building. He’d changed into trousers and a jacket, and he immediately went to the street, hailing a taxi.
As soon as he was inside the automobile, Irene put their own car in drive and followed them into the night. As she drove, Joe leaned further and further toward the windshield, and she laughed.
“You are making it fairly obvious that we are following someone,” she said.
He sat back, wiggling in his seat. “This is all very exciting if I am honest. Sometimes our cases are investigative and intriguing, but when we get to do a bit of action, then I truly feel like a detective.”
Irene laughed again. “I’m glad you get a thrill out of this.”
She wove in and out of traffic, following the taxi across the city. She had to admit that she thoroughly enjoyed the chase as well. She and Joe did make the perfect team, and if their adventures kept both of them excited enough, then they would keep solving cases for years to come.
And that would suit Irene just fine.
“Do you have any suggestions for restaurants?” Joe asked.
She glanced over at him before turning back to the road. “For after we’re done following Freddie?”
Joe let out an awkward chuckle. “No, for me to take Sarah next week. I admit I haven’t been to many nice dinners since being home.”
Irene’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Why don’t you go dancing with her? You told me you enjoy dancing.”
“I do,” he replied with a shy smile. “But I wouldn’t want to do that as a first date. I’d be too embarrassed if I missed a step.”
Irene let out a snort. “But you were going to take me?”
He shrugged. “If I miss a hundred steps with you, it wouldn’t matter as we would simply laugh it off and still have a great evening. But I just don’t think I want to do that as a first date.”
“There is Arthur’s Inn, where we first met,” she said. “Otherwise I can’t think of any that are first-date worthy, as I have never been on a date.”
She felt Joe stare at her as she drove.
“Never?” he repeated in disbelief.
Irene shook her head. “Why would I need to go on a date? People date to determine who they intend to marry.”
“You date because you like one another,” Joe argued.
“You and I like each other,” she countered. “And we do not date.”
“Well, you and I are different.” He trailed off and stared out the window again, seemingly wanting to end the conversation. Irene didn’t mind that in the least, as the sour feeling in her stomach had now returned.
“I shall attempt to think of restaurants,” she said as a way of closing the conversation. “Perhaps ask Thom for some suggestions, as he would know all the best places.”
“Good idea,” Joe said
They sat in silence for the rest of the drive to the east end of London, past the docks, and to a busy street of pubs. Freddie’s taxi pulled to the curb, and Irene stopped their car a block away.
Freddie hopped out of the taxi, paid his due, and sauntered toward one of the pubs.
Irene backed the car into a parking spot at the side of the road and cut the engine.
“We shall observe him from that alley across the road,” she told Joe. They left the Vauxhall and hurried across the street to the alleyway between two buildings in the midst of repairs.
The alley was cold and damp and smelled of coal and a few other scents that Irene wasn’t too keen to figure out. Joe tugged his jacket tighter around him and looked up and down the street.
“Half of these buildings don’t even look like there was an attempt made to fix them,” he observed.
Irene shrugged, thinking of the Beauchamps in Kensington. “Different classes. Have to keep the rich people happy.”
Joe shook his head. “It’ll be decades before the whole of London is back on its feet.”
* * * * *
Two hours later, Irene leaned on the wall of the building, keeping a close eye on Freddie. He’d drank two beers, chatted with three mates, and attempted to flirt with the waitress before ordering another beer.
Beside her, Joe hopped back and forth on his feet, twisting on the spot.
She sighed. “You are dancing as if you’ve gone days without the loo.”
“I’m fine,” he said.
“You’re not.” She jerked her thumb down the street. “Two doors down there is another pub. Hurry on. You are no use if your bladder is ready to burst.”
Joe stared at her in contemplation. “You’ll be alright here for a few minutes?”
She shrugged. “Of course. I am simply standing here watching this man get drunk. I will be perfectly fine.”
He hesitated for a moment before giving a curt nod and hurrying out of the alley.
Irene stretched her shoulders and watched Freddie take another swig of beer. A light drizzle had set in, and she frowned at the droplets spritzing her face. Laughter came from the pavement and a trio of drunkards stumbled by, hot alcohol breath steaming in the cold air. They spotted her, and the tallest, skinniest one elbowed his rather large friend.
“How much you chargin’, love?” They all giggled like teenagers.
Irene should’ve ignored them, should’ve stepped out to the street and searched for Joe, but she couldn’t risk Freddie seeing her.
There were so many things she could’ve done correctly. Instead, a small fire erupted in her belly, and she spat a cheeky comment. “More than you can afford. Move along.”
They all ooh’d and ahh’d like she’d just offered the greatest retort in history.
“And how’d you know that, eh, sweetheart?” the skinny one said. “Maybe I’ve got loads of coin in these trousers. You could check.”
“You clearly have little to no money,” she quipped. “Your trousers are second hand, and your mates’ are left over from his army uniform. Your jacket needs elbow patches, and if you had as much coin as you claim, your pockets would weigh down your trousers, and you’d need an actually useful belt. Given yours is doing nothing but attempting a fashion statement tells me your pants are light as a feather with no money weighing them down. Also, the manner in which you speak tells me you’re from just around the corner which needless to say, isn’t swimming in pounds, is it?”
They all stared at her, and the one took a big swig from his flask. “You want to be cheeky? I’ll give you something to be cheeky about. C’mere, sweetheart.”
They approached her and a smile actually spread across her face. Her fists clenched, and she popped up on the balls of her feet. All week she’d felt like a coiled spring, full of new emotions she didn’t understand or want to make sense of, and now was her chance to rid herself of those feelings.
The big one made a grab for her, but in his drunken state, he stumbled, and she caught him in the side, right in the kidney. He buckled, and she locked her arm in his and spun, using his own weigh to twirl him further into the alley and to the ground.
Presumabl
y seeing that Irene could put up an actual fight, the two remaining men changed their tactics and balled their fists, as if this were a common pub brawl and not an attempt to grab a woman that they wanted to have fun with.
She blocked a hit from one of them, but the other smacked her face and her lip split. The tall man got her from behind, and she locked her leg around his ankle and threw herself backwards. They both rolled to the ground, and Irene scrambled out of his arms and to her feet.
For whatever reason, as she elbowed the large man attempting another grab, the conversation with Jeannie about Christmas flashed in her mind and fuelled the small fire of anger in her stomach. Then she thought of Joe and his lengthy, flirty conversation with the librarian and how he was off to dinner and dancing without her, and that fuelled the fire even more.
The worst part was, she didn’t even know why those two things made her feel so sour, or if they even had anything in common.
A fist connected with her face and sent her stumbling toward the pavement. She cursed under her breath and got her arm up, blocking a second punch from the tall man.
She kicked out at his stomach, and he folded in half and crumpled to the ground. The other large man rushed her, and she struck out with the heel of her palm, breaking his nose, blood instantly running down his face. He let out a cry, clutching his shattered nose, and he stumbled back, tripping over his downed friend.
Two hands reached under her arms and dragged her back. She twirled, ready to strike again, but Joe was there, and he held up an arm to block whatever she threw.
One of the men snarled something foul behind her, and she turned, but Joe cut in front of her. He held her back, arm across her chest, gripping her coat should she try to sidestep him.
The men stumbled to their feet, bleeding and angry, and Joe held out his hand to keep them at bay.
“I suggest that you leave, gentleman,” he ordered, staring them down.
The Red Rover Society Page 8
