The Victim in Victoria Station

by Jeanne M. Dams

  I was very sure I heard a stifled giggle.

  10

  I survived the condescension of the young job applicants in the Temp-Assist office and their ill-disguised astonishment when I was the first to be called to the desk of the woman in charge. I survived her scornfull disdain. She plainly had no use for anyone who got a job by pulling strings. She was careful to make sure that, no matter who my friends might be, I knew who was in control of this situation.

  “It is most irregular for us to allow anyone to work under our auspices, even briefly, without the necessary credentials. You have no identification papers, nor have you been tested. I can only hope that you will be able to carry out your duties properly. Our reputation is of the highest; bear that in mind. And you do quite realize that you will receive no compensation of any kind? So far as we are concerned, officially, Miss Scott is still the receptionist at Multilinks. Is that clearly understood?”

  I humbly said that it was, and murmured something about emergencies that could happen to anyone. I was ignored.

  “Very well. This is the address of the Multilinks office. The tube stop is Russell Square. Left out of the station, cross Woburn Place, second right is Northampton Way. They expect you at ten sharp.”

  She handed me a form, turned away from me, and, picking up another form, addressed the room at large. “Miss Hamilton, please.” If she had literally washed her hands, she couldn’t have made her meaning clearer.

  I also survived the glares of the young things. “Well!” said one of them to her companion, in a voice meant to be overheard. “Seventy if she’s a day—that wig doesn’t fool me! And with an American accent! And will you look at those shoes! This agency isn’t what it used to be!”

  I survived all of these indignities, but I didn’t enjoy them. My morale dipped lower and lower on the way to Multilinks. Once more I had hailed a cab as soon as I got out of sight. I didn’t intend to start my new job by being late, or by looking decrepit, an effect that a run to and from stations would certainly create. Seventy, indeed! I pulled my shoulders back. It must be the wig. It looked, I was sure, very odd. And I felt naked without a hat, though the light brown wig was certainly hot enough to count as one.

  At least I was going to a familiar part of London. Northampton Way was only a block or two away from Russell Square, the heart of Bloomsbury. Frank and I had stayed once at the venerable, old-maidish Russell Hotel there, in the old days when he exchange-taught at the University of London and we used to haunt the British Museum. I loved Bloomsbury, with its neat white houses and shiny black railings, its unexpected little squares and gardens. On impulse I sat up and tapped on the driver’s window as we were rounding Russell Square.

  “Set me down at the corner, would you? I’ll walk from there.”

  “Right you are, madam. Lovely day for a bit of a walk.” His good cheer was probably enhanced by the fact that the corner in question was right in front of the big hotel, where he was guaranteed a quick fare.

  I had fifteen minutes to spare. I spent five of them watching the activity in the square and regaining my composure. It didn’t matter what those rude young women thought. I might be an American, but I had known London since long before they were born. I remembered things they had never seen—shillings and half crowns and great copper pennies, tea at Lyons Corner House, fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. I remembered sitting with Frank on a bench in the chill winter sunshine, on that very bench there, or its predecessor, on our very first day in London, all those years ago. We’d held hands in silence, drinking in the great city around us, too full of sheer happiness even to speak. We’d opened a small account at Barclay’s Bank, that very branch I was looking at now, and had thought ourselves too cosmopolitan for words.

  My memories made this place mine. London belonged to me as much as to the giggling girls in the office, as much as to the Arab and Indian and Chinese and Egyptian and Nigerian students who hurried past me, intent on reaching their lectures on time.

  On time. Yes. Was I dillydallying because I had a little extra time, or because I was nervous?

  Scared stiff would be more like it. I abandoned nostalgia with a sigh and got myself moving.

  It was a clear, still day. Over the babble of street noise I heard Big Ben, only a couple of miles away, strike the four quarters as I turned into Northampton Way. By the first stroke of ten I reached the door marked Multilinks International and, obeying the instructions on the sign, walked in.

  The front desk, located in a spacious black-and-white-tiled foyer just beyond the entrance hall, was unoccupied. That was no surprise, since I was destined to be its next occupant. I had been told to ask for Mrs. Forbes, who was, as Nigel and I had guessed, the boss’s secretary. I was wondering whether to knock on the door out of the foyer, when it opened and Mrs. Forbes came out.

  I knew it was she before she spoke. She matched her telephone voice perfectly. Well dressed, well groomed, poised, and—bless her—in her late fifties, at a guess.

  “Good morning,” she said pleasantly. “You must be Miss Wren. Or is it Mrs. Wren?”

  After a very trying day so far, the gods were beginning to smile once more. I had been ready to introduce myself as Dorothy Martin!

  “Mrs. Wren. I’m a widow.”

  “American?” she said with a little frown.

  “American-born, but I’ve lived in England for quite some time. I can’t seem to lose the accent.”

  “I see. Well, you’ll not feel alone; there are a good many accents here. We’ve a South African, an Indian, and three Canadians, as well as the English, of course. We also have clients from many countries phoning in. Can you sort them out, do you think?”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. I admit to having a little difficulty with Scottish accents sometimes, especially people from Glasgow.”

  “Oh, well, no one can understand them, can they?”

  We both laughed; I relaxed a notch.

  “I must say it will be awkward doing without Miss Scott. She has been here for some months and is very efficient. However, family crises can’t be helped, and I’m sure you’ll soon learn our way of doing things. Your duties are quite simple, really. There’s very little word processing; Mr. Grey and I handle that, except for the odd memo now and again. You will answer the telephone and route the calls. I’ve made you a list of the people here and what they do, so you’ll know who can deal with a caller who doesn’t specify a certain person.” She handed it to me. “We’re quite a small office, you see. The three sales staff are rarely here, though they receive a great many calls. You will have to be very careful about their messages.”

  “Of course. Lost messages lose sales.”

  “Quite right. Then the assistant director, Mr. Fortier, is also out a good deal.”

  “Fortier?” I said quickly. My voice came out as a near-squeak; I lowered it a trifle. “That’s an unusual name. My late husband and I used to know some Fortiers. That was back in America, but they were Canadian.”

  “Mr. Fortier is Canadian, but I doubt there’s a connection. Mr. Fortier is a quite a lot younger—oh, I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s all right. I’m not as old as I look—it’s this new wig, it wasn’t a good idea—but I don’t mind admitting to my age. I’m fifty-nine, but I know I look older. I’ve had a bout with cancer, and the chemotherapy hasn’t been over for very long. The doctors say I’m doing very well, but it took a lot out of me, and my hair still hasn’t grown back properly.”

  All that on the spur of the moment! Apparently it was only with people close to me that I couldn’t lie convincingly.

  It went down beautifully. Mrs. Forbes didn’t seem to boggle at my creative version of my age, but simply smiled with great sympathy. “I hope you’re doing well.”

  “Feeling fine, thank you, but that’s why I’ve had to take temporary work. My résumé isn’t up to date, and of course at my age it isn’t easy—”

  “I know exactly what you mean! I feel very fortunate
to have found such a good post here. I believe that in America there are laws about age discrimination?”

  “There are. They’re not very effective.”

  “Here we haven’t even the laws. But Mr. Spragge is marvelous to work for, and adamant that he prefers an older secretary, though we must take what we can get in the way of a receptionist.” She turned slightly pink. “Oh, dear, I don’t mean you, Mrs. Wren. It’s these young girls …” She shook her head and clicked her tongue. “But for the money we can offer, of course the older, more highly qualified staff prefer to go elsewhere. And the turnover—but I expect you’re not interested in our staffing problems. I personally think we’re lucky to have you, and I hope you’ll be happy here.”

  The telephone rang. “Oh, dear, here we’ve been chatting, and I ought to have been instructing you about the telephone. I’ll just answer this, and then we can sit down and get to it, and I’ll run over the computer and our filing system with you as well.”

  The conversation had drifted away from Mr. Fortier, and I saw no way to tug it back. Well, doubtless there would be other opportunities.

  By lunchtime I had answered twenty-seven phone calls (I had to log them), taken fifteen messages, escorted three customers in to the sales secretary, Peter Grey, and filed half an in tray. I had also played around with the computer—which operated very much like Nigel’s, to my relief—and had accomplished exactly nothing related to my real purposes. I was exhausted.

  “Lunchtime, Mrs. Wren!” Mrs. Forbes came out of her office. “Mr. Grey very kindly takes his lunch late so that the receptionist and I can go out at one. Do you know the area, or would you like me to show you a café or two?”

  “My husband and I used to know it at one time, but I’ve lost touch. I’d be very grateful if you’d show me.”

  I couldn’t, as her subordinate, suggest that we eat together, but I was delighted when she made the suggestion. “I’m a widow, too, and I know one gets lonely.” Over salad and tea at a self-service café, I had the chance to ask her a few of the things I was longing to know.

  “Could you tell me about the rest of the staff, Mrs. Forbes? I’ve met only Mr. Grey, and I didn’t really get a very distinct impression of him.”

  She laughed a little. “Grey by name and gray by nature, I’m afraid. He’s one of our Canadians. That is, he was born and raised there, so he has a bit of the accent. I imagine you caught that.”

  “I wasn’t sure; it isn’t very strong.”

  “No, he’s lived here for a few years. His parents were English, I understand. I think he said he moved over here when they died. I don’t quite remember; one often doesn’t remember what Peter Grey says, I’m afraid. He’s that sort of person. Fades into the wallpaper. Extremely efficient secretary, though.”

  “When you say he lives here, you mean here in London?”

  “No—Surrey, I think. Perhaps even Kent. Again, I simply can’t remember. I know he is sometimes late getting in to the office when the trains are delayed.”

  “As they so often are. Does that upset his boss, Mr.—oh, dear—”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll have all the names soon. Mr. Upton, Brian Upton, the director of marketing. You must meet him this afternoon. He’s half Irish, you know, and has a bit of a temper. He—well, you must make up your own mind. I don’t want to prejudice you. But if I were you, I’d be careful to keep the right side of him. He does get very angry with Mr. Grey at times; he ruined his computer once—threw a paperweight, and it hit the monitor. And it’s so unfair. Poor Peter doesn’t drive the trains!”

  Peter Grey, nonentity, Canadian; Brian Upton, capacity for violence. Nothing unexpected there, given the brief phone contacts I’d already had, but I duly filed them away. “All right, let me see. Then there’s Mr. Spragge, of course.”

  “Yes, I’ll introduce you to him when he isn’t busy. He is a truly dedicated man, and the most brilliant person I’ve ever met.”

  There was a distinct note of awe in her voice. “Is he married?” I asked, and could have bitten my tongue. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—that is—”

  She laughed. “I have no designs on him, if that’s what you mean. No, I admire him intensely, but not in that way. He’s far younger than I, for one thing, forty at a guess. And yes, he is married, with two lovely children, teenagers, a boy and a girl. And quite devoted to his wife, poor dear.”

  “Poor dear? Mr. Spragge?”

  “Sorry, I meant Mrs. Spragge. She’s a virtual invalid. There was an accident, years ago, and her back hasn’t been right since. She is confined to a wheelchair nearly all the time.”

  “Oh, dear! What a pity for such a young woman!”

  “They manage. Mr. Spragge would do anything for her. He is a man of great compassion and integrity.”

  “I look forward to meeting him. Now, there are the three salesmen—”

  “You won’t see much of them, actually. And of course one of them is a woman.” She snapped her mouth shut on further comment. I wondered what she wasn’t saying, but for now I thought it was better to let her tell me just what she wanted to. Time enough to probe when I knew everyone better.

  “Mr. Pierce is another Canadian. We’ve rather a lot of them; Multilinks is quite important in Canada. He’s Welsh by descent, though, and looks it. One of those dark, brooding types. He’s been in England for a year; I don’t think he cares for it much.”

  “Does he live in the country, too?”

  “Oh, no, London and the fast track for him!”

  “Not married, then, I take it.”

  “He has a wife.”

  What an interesting way to put it. “Who else?”

  “Mr. Dalal and Mrs. Shore.”

  “Mr. Dalal is Indian, I take it.”

  “English born, but of Indian parents. First-class degree in maths from Cambridge, but he preferred a sales post to teaching. He doesn’t seem to get on well with the others—rather a pedantic little man. And Mrs. Shore—she prefers Ms., by the way, and one can see why. She is—very attractive. Red hair, that creamy sort of skin.”

  Again Mrs. Forbes closed her mouth firmly, and again I wondered.

  “Is that all of them?”

  “Not quite. The bookkeeper is Mr. Hammond.”

  Ah, yes, the bibulous Mr. Hammond.

  “He works just round the corner from my desk, in that sort of cubbyhole off the main office. You’ll see quite a lot of him, of course. He’s South African.”

  “Black?”

  “White. He disapproved of apartheid, back when it was still in effect, so he left and came to England. He makes us all laugh.”

  “A bookkeeper?”

  “I know, odd, isn’t it? So often they’re such drab people, but Terry is funny. A bit too brash sometimes. Mr. Spragge gets irritated, but I think it’s just high spirits.”

  Well, she probably had the spirits part right.

  “That’s the lot, except for Mr. Fortier, of course. But as I said, he’s almost never in the office, so you’ll see very little of him.”

  Well, that was both a blessing and a disappointment. If I never saw the man, how could I tell whether he was my murderer? Though if he was, it would be much better if he never saw me. I probed a little.

  “He must be a very able man, to be second in command to Mr. Spragge.”

  “Oh, he is. Young, of course, but very eager to make good, and sensible enough to take Mr. Spragge’s advice, which is more than I can say for some.”

  Ambitious and a yes-man. I put the information in my mental file drawer and speared the last sprig of watercress.

  Mrs. Forbes finished her tea and sighed. “I must go, but you needn’t. Stay and have a sweet if you like. You’re not due back until two.”

  I looked at my watch. It was only one-thirty. “Some shopping to do?”

  “No, work at the office. Things have been—rather difficult of late, and I’ve got behindhand.” She sighed again. “It used to be such a pleasant place to work, but lately eve
ryone seems to be in a temper.”

  That was interesting, if not specific enough to be useful. “I might as well go with you. I certainly don’t need any dessert.”

  We stood, and Mrs. Forbes dropped her handbag, a big carryall. A book fell out. I picked it up for her.

  “Oh, John Buchan! I love him, especially The Thirty-Nine Steps. I haven’t read this one, is it good?”

  “Oh, yes! I do believe Greenmantle is my favorite, though I enjoy them all. I read a lot of thrillers from that period—Edgar Wallace, you know, and Oppenheim, though I think I like Buchan the best. I really prefer them to most modern writers.”

  “They’re very exciting, aren’t they? I’ve never read Wallace, but I’m just beginning to get acquainted with Oppenheim. Do you like mysteries—I think you call them detective fiction—or just the thrillers?”

  “Oh, no, I love the Golden Age writers, Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers and that sort!”

  “But that’s how I first learned to love England, by reading Agatha Christie! What’s your favorite of her books?”

  We talked popular literature all the way back to the office, and by the time we got there, friendly relations were firmly established.

  Good. I was going to need a friend in this nest of possible murderers.

  11

  That afternoon I met Terry Hammond, the bookkeeper, a freckled, pleasant-looking man of about thirty with a lot of very red hair, worn rather long, and a friendly, open face. I could see why Mrs. Forbes liked him. He didn’t, at a quick glance, remind me at all of the man in the train. Surely I would have noticed the red hair, and even if I hadn’t, under the hat, I couldn’t have missed the marked tremor of his hands. He bore none of the other stigmata of the heavy drinker, but a man with a problem is a man to watch.

  Nor did Brian Upton look like my train man, though he did not impress me at all favorably. When Mrs. Forbes introduced us, I got a nod and a growl in response to my smile, after which he shouted for Peter Grey and ignored me completely. I did get a good view of his profile. He looked like a ferret. Had the man in the train been at all like that? I simply couldn’t remember; all I could recall was a black suit and a black hat and a stuffy sort of manner. Upton did have the right sort of build, but not the right sort of accent, so far as I could judge on the basis of a snarled word or two.