The Red Rover Society

by Allison Osborne

  “Or what?” The tall one sneered, but there was no confidence in his words.

  Irene pressed against Joe’s arm, wanting to finish her job, that fire in her stomach burning hot. Joe looked over his shoulder at her, then back at the men.

  “Or I’ll let her go,” he said, voice deep and surprisingly threatening.

  Irene had no idea what she looked like but felt warm liquid trickle down her chin from her split lip, and her knuckles were split and sticky with blood.

  “She’s not worth it boys,” one of the large men called out. “Neither of them are.”

  They shuffled around Joe and Irene, wincing in pain, and hurried out of the alley and down the pavement.

  As soon as they were gone, Joe turned to Irene. “What the hell were you doing?”

  She shrugged, spitting blood. “They attacked me.”

  “Were they provoked?”

  She looked away, stomach turning. She wished she knew this feeling consuming her body, but she needed to tamp it down and finish this case, then she could figure it out. Joe began looking over her wounds, but she wriggled away.

  “Dammit, Irene,” Joe hissed. “That was stupid and reckless. What if they had gotten lucky and hurt you badly? You looked like you weren’t going to stop. Would you have stopped if I hadn’t come around the corner?”

  His words faded into the background as Irene licked the drying blood from her lips and stared across the road at the empty seat where Freddie had sat.

  He was gone.

  He’d left the pub, and she’d missed him.

  Without warning Joe, she left the alley, sprinting across the road. She looked in the pub window as she passed, but there were empty glasses and a paid bill on the table.

  Joe caught up to her. “Where’d he go?”

  “I don’t know,” Irene said, breathless and searching up and down the street. She couldn’t see him down the stretch of pavement going toward their car, so she opted to sprint the other way, around a long bend in the road.

  As she passed the pubs and alleyways, she looked into each of them, praying that Freddie would appear. She approached another alleyway and looked down, this time spotting a squirming lump on the ground.

  Irene slipped to a halt on the wet cobblestone, grabbing Joe’s sleeve and dragging him with her. The streetlights lit up enough of the alley for Irene to gasp at the scene.

  Freddie writhed on the ground, dark liquid surrounding him and soaking into his jacket. A large stain of red darkened his stomach. Irene crouched and spotted the inch-wide slice right where his liver sat.

  Joe dropped down beside her and applied pressure to the wound, but Irene knew it was too late. There was too much blood on the pavement for Freddie to live through this. She grabbed Freddie’s collar and got his attention.

  “Who did this to you?” she demanded.

  He coughed, gurgling in an attempt to speak.

  “Who stabbed you?” she asked again, heart thudding in her chest, sweat mixing with the rain on her forehead.

  “Irene...” Joe said, but he didn’t try to stop her.

  “Tell me who,” she repeated, shaking Freddie’s collar to keep him awake. “Who stole the items from the flats? Who is behind all of this and why?”

  “Irene!” Joe grabbed her arm. “This man is dying.”

  “Exactly,” she snapped. “And if he does, then we are lost.”

  As she spoke, Freddie mumbled something. She put her ear close to his mouth. “Say it again.”

  “Tea...” he muttered in short breaths. “Afternoon tea... Dogs... The help...”

  Irene shook him again. “Who helps? What about the dogs?”

  He gave a cough, and his eyelids fluttered. Then he went limp. Irene released his jacket and stood, turning and punching the nearby brick wall dramatically, angry tears welled in her eyes. “Dammit.”

  Chapter VI

  A Murder Investigation

  DI Eddy Lestrade’s Wolseley police car blocked the alley where the dead doorman lay. Joe attempted to wash his bloodied hands in the water falling from a drainpipe while Lestrade examined the body, his lanky form crouched in observation. The drizzle had come on steady, yet a crowd still gathered at the end of the alley to gawk at the crime scene.

  Lestrade sighed and stood beside Joe. “How did a doorman from one of the richest apartment buildings in the city end up stabbed in an alley on the east end?”

  “It’s a long story,” Joe admitted. “One that involves dogs and missing antiques.”

  “You two could find trouble in an empty room,” he muttered before pointing to Irene. “She okay?”

  Joe looked at Irene. She leaned against the wall near the mouth of the alley, slowly wrapping a bandage from Lestrade’s first aid kit around her bloodied knuckles. She stared at nothing and barely blinked.

  “She picked a fight with three men while we were supposed to be tailing this one,” Joe told him. “I stepped away for one moment, and when I came back, she was in the middle of them, ready for round two. Honestly, Lestrade, I worried about what she would’ve done to them had I not shown up.”

  Lestrade frowned and glanced at Irene. “She’ll pick a fight on a good day, but she picks bad fights when she feels like she’s losing control. At least that’s what I’ve noticed. After every bombing during the war, she’d run her mouth until she’d win an argument or get into a scrap with some drunk.”

  “Something about this case, or this week, or this time of year, is really getting to her. She seems angry, and if she continues like this, I’m going to become even more worried.”

  “Perhaps I will speak with her when things settle down here,” Lestrade decided. “Now, I do need statements from both of you and–”

  A low, long whistle came from the police car. DI Thom Gregory stepped into the alley beside them.

  “If this is the outcome of that party,” he said, offering a haughty grin. “Then perhaps it was for the best that I skipped it.”

  He eyed Irene as he passed her and met Lestrade and Joe at the body.

  “What happened to her?” he asked.

  “Some drunkards tried to take advantage of her,” Joe said. “And she didn’t let them.”

  “Good for her,” Gregory nodded, motioning to the crime scene. “I want in on this case.”

  Lestrade sighed. “I am already here.”

  “I helped these two prepare for their little party,” Gregory argued. “And I’ll be damned if I don’t see the rest of this case through to find out how tea in Kensington turned into a murder in the east end.”

  They both looked to Joe as if he had the final say, but he simply shook his head. “This is between you two. I need to get her home and cleaned up.”

  Both inspectors flipped open their notebooks, eyed each other in annoyance, then waited for Joe’s statement.

  “I didn’t see Freddie leave the pub,” Joe said. “We gave chase in the direction we assumed he went, and Irene spotted him in this alley, bleeding out. I attempted to administer first aid while Irene asked him questions, but he died within two minutes of us trying to save him.”

  The inspectors scribbled his words down, and Lestrade beat Gregory by a hair.

  “I shall go talk to Irene.” As he spoke, Irene joined their group, seemingly snapped out of whatever stupor she was in.

  “Hello, Thom,” she said. “There was no tea at the party and far too many cakes for the number of people. They also said I was as sweet as sugar. All in all, it was torture.”

  Again, they looked to Joe for a better explanation, and he shrugged. “It was not terrible, and I was given two cigars which I can pass on to both of you.”

  “I will be the one to tell the apartment building that their doorman has died,” Irene stated. “If that suits you both.”

  Gregory shook his head. “An inspector should be the one that gives out that kind of information.”

  She waved him off, the bandage on her hand unfurling. “Don’t trouble yourself.”


  Gregory went to argue, but Lestrade stepped in. “Irene, I think we will–”

  “Also,” she continued talking, ignoring Lestrade. “Don’t lose too much sleep over catching the murderer, as you will have your culprit handed right to you in the next few days.”

  “And are you going to share who that is?” Gregory said, his usual annoyance seeping into his words.

  “No,” she said simply. “I do not know all the details yet. I will need your help arranging the capture, however, but I shall ring Scotland Yard when I do.” She next addressed Joe. “I shall see you at Baker Street, though I believe I shall be asleep before you even walk through the door. Goodnight, gentleman.”

  She pivoted on her heel and headed quickly out of the alley.

  “Irene!” Lestrade called after her. “I need your statement.”

  She quickly hailed a taxi and was off before Lestrade could chase her to the end of the alley. Gregory muttered annoyed words under his breath, and Lestrade sighed. Then, they both turned to Joe.

  “Why are you looking at me like I have any thought as to what goes on in her head?” he asked.

  “You’re free to go,” Lestrade said. “Please call us with any information pertaining to the murder.”

  “Of course,” Joe replied. He walked away from the crime scene as a wave of exhaustion hit him. He could handle Irene and her mood swings, but her picking fights was something he wouldn’t stand for, no matter if she won the whole lot of them. They were injured regularly enough on their cases without having to go look for other ways to turn themselves black and blue.

  * * * * *

  Irene had kept her word and was asleep when he arrived home, but she’d woken Joe the next morning with a full breakfast from Miss Hudson and told him that they had a busy day ahead of them. She’d even asked one of the paperboys to retrieve a can of petrol for the automobile.

  They were now back at Mr. Henry Jones’s shop, and she attempted to persuade him to lend them a rather expensive perfume bottle.

  Mr. Jones had remembered them as the couple with the Cartier necklace and was eager to do business with them, but then turned suspicious as soon as he got a good look at Irene with her black eye, cut lip, and scraped knuckles. He had finally agreed that if DI Lestrade of Scotland Yard could vouch for her, she could have use of the bottle.

  So, she’d used the man’s telephone to call Scotland Yard, and now they waited for Lestrade.

  The bell above the door dinged, and Lestrade walked in.

  “There we go,” Irene said, making a grab for the bottle. The dealer was fast, though, and swiped it before she could touch it.

  “Is this the bottle in question?” Lestrade said, eyeing the pale green glass that resembled a round seashell.

  “This is a Rene Lalique, Inspector,” Mr. Jones insisted. “I cannot just give it away willy-nilly.”

  “It’s not willy-nilly,” Irene said as if the man insulted her. “This is for an investigation.”

  Lestrade turned to Irene. “And you will give it back?”

  Irene nodded. “In three days’ time, fully intact. It is just to be used as a prop, nothing more.”

  Lestrade addressed to Mr. Jones. “I give you my word, sir, that this bottle shall be returned to you.” He lifted his badge from his belt and presented it to the man. “Under the promise of Scotland Yard.”

  Mr. Jones grumbled, but finally shook both Irene and Lestrade’s hand before reluctantly handing the bottle over.

  Joe, Lestrade, and Irene left the antique shop and walked down the pavement towards their automobiles.

  “If you break this bottle,” Lestrade began. “You’ll be doing paperwork for me for a month.”

  “You will have a thief and murderer behind bars,” Irene told him, opening the driver’s door of the car. “And the gratitude of the Red Rover Society.”

  She climbed in the car as Joe shook Lestrade’s hand in thanks for, once again, assisting them.

  “What is the Red Rover Society?” Lestrade asked before realization spread across his face. “And I still need a statement from her.”

  * * * * *

  Mrs. Beauchamp opened her own door this time after Irene gave a hard knock.

  “Oh, Miss Holmes!” she cried and led them quickly into the sitting area. “Everything’s gone to hell in a handbasket. There are over fifteen items on this list. Fifteen!”

  She grabbed a beautiful calligraphy piece of paper from the coffee table and waved it in the air. Irene took it from her, and Mrs. Beauchamp gasped.

  “Oh goodness. What happened to you?”

  “It’s nothing,” Irene said, studying the list. “Just a bit of rough and tumble over in the east end. I am fine.”

  Irene handed the list to Joe. There were, indeed, fifteen items written down. From watches to statues, to cufflinks and necklaces. Joe envied the tenants a bit as he couldn’t imagine having that many valuable treasures that he wouldn’t notice one was missing.

  “What are we going to do, Miss Holmes?” Mrs. Beauchamp asked. “Everyone is up in arms about their missing items and demanding answers.”

  “Have everyone gather here as soon as possible,” Irene ordered. “I will explain everything to them. But, I need all staff in their quarters while I do so.”

  Ten minutes later, all the members of the Red Rover Society gathered in the Beauchamp’s sitting area, grumbling amongst themselves. Half of them gawked at Irene as if not quite believing that this woman in trousers, messed hair, and bruises was the same woman entertaining them at tea just a short time ago. A few of them even eyed Joe in his wrinkled state.

  “Excuse me,” Irene said, and the group silenced. “I’m here to inform you that Freddie, the young doorman, was found dead last night.”

  Joe cringed as gasps flew through the crowd. Irene certainly had a way of bluntly informing people of the most tragic news.

  The tenants then demanded answers from Mrs. Beauchamp, throwing questions at her from all angles, and Joe could barely keep up with who was asking what.

  “What happened to Freddie?”

  “Who is this woman?”

  “It’s her from the Society meeting!”

  “Where are our missing items?”

  “Are we in danger?”

  Irene cleared her throat in an attempt to draw the attention back to her. In typical Irene fashion, she cheekily answered most of the questions thrown at her before continuing with her false narrative. “Freddie is dead. I am Irene Holmes, from the Society meeting. Your missing items will be recovered. No, there is no danger here. Right now, there are no leads. According to Scotland Yard, poor Freddie appears to be the victim of a street robbery gone wrong. As for your missing items, we will attempt to locate them as best we can. While I cannot tell you for certain that Freddie was the one who took all the objects, it certainly looks that way.”

  Gasps of shock came from the tenants, and Joe had to suppress his own. Surely Irene didn’t think that Freddie was the mastermind behind this, so why was she blaming the poor boy? Joe tried to put himself in her head and think along the same lines that she did. Blaming Freddie soothed the tenants and hopefully kept the actual culprit from fleeing because the blame was elsewhere.

  “Everyone can go back to their normal routines,” Irene continued. “And we shall update you every chance we get.”

  The crowd started talking amongst themselves, and Irene grabbed Mrs. Beauchamp, whispering something to her. They disappeared into the kitchen in the back of the flat. Joe slipped away as well, following them.

  The kitchen was just as gorgeous as the rest of the flat, and a towering brand-new refrigerator gleamed from its spot beside the large shining stove.

  There was something to be said for owning a large appliance store, as the Beauchamps had a kitchen filled with the latest models.

  Irene spoke to Mrs. Beauchamp in hushed whispers. “Come to Baker Street later this evening under the guise that you are giving us our final pay. I have another special task for
you.”

  She nodded solemnly as if taking the assignment deadly serious. “I shall be there.”

  * * * * *

  Joe and Irene’s next stop was the maid’s flat on the third floor. Though the space was nice, the furniture was mismatched and second-hand, as if the women spent all their time tidying up in the other flats and this one often got neglected.

  They all gathered in the large living area strewn about on different couches.

  “Freddie is dead,” Irene said. “He was stabbed in a robbery gone wrong last night.”

  Joe paid particular attention to the shocked and upset reactions and caught Molly, the Beauchamp’s maid, as the odd one out.

  Tears welled in her eyes, but they never fell. Her mouth tensed, and she rubbed her palms on her skirt, but she didn’t appear sad. She seemed fearful or worried.

  Sasha, on the other hand, was beside herself. She sobbed into her hands while another girl comforted her.

  Perhaps Sasha and the doorman were a little more than friends.

  Irene would no doubt pick up on all these emotions, as well, and Joe was eager to compare his observations with hers.

  * * * * *

  Joe lifted his feet as Miss Hudson Hoovered under his chair for the second time today. Mrs. Beauchamp was due any moment, and the landlady had busied herself for the past two hours, making sure 221B looked its best.

  She stopped the Hoover and gathered the cord just as the doorbell rang.

  “Quickly, Irene,” she urged. “Stick this in your bedroom.”

  She dumped the cord on Irene and took one more sweep of the room, her eyes landing on the chair by the fire, stacked with three pillows. Miss Hudson frowned, and Joe saw Irene pause, ready to challenge the landlady should she say anything about her father’s old chair. Miss Hudson gave the smallest shake of her head as if deciding to keep quiet before rushing out of the room to answer the door. Irene did as asked with the cord while Joe stood, ready to greet Mrs. Beauchamp. Irene shut her bedroom door –Hoover hidden– as Miss Hudson led Mrs. Beauchamp through the door.

  She looked around the room, a pleasant smile on her lips. “This place is so unique and charming.”