by L. A. Nisula
So the accidental name confusion wasn’t accidental at all. “Thank you for trying; she can be a bit stubborn.”
“As long as she didn’t do the other one in. Good luck.”
“Thank you.” I hurried away before he could decide to charge me for the information he’d given.
When I got out of the cab on Essex Street, I discovered there were several boarding houses that looked like the sort of place a girl of the type I imagined Miss Hayes to be could be staying. I had hoped to see a policeman outside of her building, but it seemed Inspector Wainwright had gotten whatever he needed and left. I shouldn’t really have been surprised; she hadn’t been murdered in her flat so there was no crime scene to be blocked off. But that would make it harder to find her flat and anyone who knew her.
There were several shops on the ground floors of the buildings. I crossed the street so the shop windows would be facing most of the boarding house entrances and starting looking at my options. Near the center of the street, there was a millinery shop with a large window filled with rather dull hats and a shop girl pretending to rearrange them. That was the place to start.
The girl looked surprised when I entered. “Were you looking for a hat? I mean, can I help you?”
“I don’t really need a hat, but I was sort of looking.” It was the sort of thing she could say made her think she could convince me to buy something.
“Then let me show you a few things. Um...” She scanned the display in the window and chose the least offensive of the bunch. “Try this.”
I sat by the mirror and let her put the hat on me. As she leaned in to fix the ribbons, I murmured, “You don’t sell much here, do you?”
“Herself won’t put a penny in for new stock. Says what we’ve got is good enough, and I just don’t know how to sell.”
“You look out the window a lot?”
“Not much else to do.”
“Did the police go in anywhere this morning?”
“Number 52. The girl that lives there, Miss Susan Hayes, was murdered last night.”
“Did you know her?”
“No, the neighbor. Anna Wallen.”
Well, that would have been too easy. “Is Miss Wallen at home?”
“Probably. Are you some kind of detective?”
“Some kind.”
She grinned. “Most interesting thing that’s happened all week. It’s the second floor.”
“Try telling herself there’s no foot traffic in the area, and she should get some of her posh friends to wear the hats. A little advertisement for the shop.”
“She hasn’t got posh friends. Oh, I see, but I pretend I think she does. Put some of the blame on her friends. That could work. Make her think I have good taste, or what she thinks it is anyway.”
I grinned and let her take the hat back. In case herself was listening, I said loud enough to be heard, “I just don’t know. I don’t really need another hat.”
“You looked quite lovely in it,” she said, playing along.
“Well, I’ll see. I may be back.”
She winked at me. She knew exactly why I might come back, and it had nothing to do with hats. “Can’t hold things, I’m afraid.”
“It’s a risk I’ll take. Thank you for all your help.”
“A pleasure, miss.”
Number 52 was almost directly across the street from the hat shop. The building seemed to be a newer one, but one built as a boring brick slab without decoration or modern improvements. There was no buzzer-and-pneumatic-tube system like the one on Paddington Street, so no way to ring a neighbor and beg to be let in. I was prepared to try waiting for one of the other residents to return, but there was no one on the block that looked likely to be a resident. I paced back and forth for a few minutes hoping I could pretend to come upon someone by chance as they were going in or out, but that would have required someone passing in one direction or the other. To break the monotony, I went up the steps and wiggled the door handle, not that I expected that to work. So it was quite a surprise when the door opened easily for me. Clearly having a resident murdered hadn’t caused anyone else undue concern about security.
I let myself into a small entryway. There was a door leading to an empty common sitting room on my left and another closed door on my right. Directly in front of me was a staircase. As no landlady presented herself to ask what I was doing there, I started up the staircase, which I assumed led to the tenants’ rooms.
I was hoping to find some external evidence of which room belonged to Miss Hayes. If nothing else, Scotland Yard seemed particularly negligent when it came to their fingerprint powder. But as Miss Hayes had not been murdered on the premises, there didn’t seem to have been a need for any, and there were no names on the doors or other indication of who lived where beyond a simple numbering system that told me nothing about the residents. The second floor had three doors, numbered 21, 22, and 23 logically enough. I was considering which to try first when the door to number 22 opened and a fashionably coiffed head peered around the edge of the door. “Were you looking for someone, dear?”
“Miss Hayes?”
“Oh, I’ve never had to… I mean…”
I understood her hesitation at once. “I meant I was looking for her lodgings. I thought I’d be able to tell which was hers on my own. The police often leave such a mess.”
“Then you do know that’s she’s…passed on.”
I nodded.
“You knew her?”
“Slightly. More a friend of a friend.”
“I see. Well her room’s next to mine. 23. I’m afraid I thought you were a policeman coming back. They made such a racket when they were here. And the one fellow was not bad-looking at all.”
I was tempted to ask for a name to see what her taste in policemen ran to, but I refrained. “Did they find anything?”
“I didn’t see them taking much out. Although I wasn’t able to watch too closely, you understand. I wouldn’t want them to think I had a reason for watching.”
“Of course not. I don’t suppose they left it unlocked, did they?”
“I doubt it, but these locks open with a pin. Let me show you. Maisie below us always loses her key, and we let her in until she can find it. She always does, but if she tells Mrs. Hanson, she’ll have to pay the fine even if she does find it.”
I nodded as my new informant pulled a pin from her hair and made quick work of the door. I considered pointing out that a resident had been murdered so perhaps they should be taking their security a little more seriously, but that seemed a bit hypocritical when I was using that very lack of security to access the victim’s rooms.
Miss Hayes’s lodgings consisted of two rooms. I entered a sitting room dominated by a chair and settee. There was another door across from the one I was standing in which seemed to lead to the bedroom. I wandered around the sitting room but was prevented from looking at anything too closely as the neighbor remained standing in the doorway. I wasn’t certain if it was a belated attempt at security or a simple desire to see what I was doing. Either way, it made rifling through drawers awkward at best. But as she was watching, at least I could get some information from her.
“There’s no kitchen, so I assume you took meals together?”
“That’s right. Downstairs in the dining room. Mrs. Hanson sets a nice table. It’s why most of us stay.”
I peered into the bedroom, which was large enough for a bed and a dresser and not much else. “When did you last see her?”
“At breakfast. We had eggs and tomatoes on toast.”
“Not at dinner?”
“No, nor lunch either. She was usually here for lunch. She didn’t work that far away, you see, and the lunch is included.”
I paused. “Where did she work?”
“Madame de Breton, Modiste, dress shop just round the corner. But I doubt the lady who runs it is French or has ever been to Paris. But she does make nice dresses, and she paid Susan well enough for minding the counter.”
>
I added Madame de Breton to my list of clues. “Does she miss lunch often? If the shop is busy perhaps?”
“I don’t think the shop gets busy. Not often.”
“But she did go to work that day? She didn’t perhaps say she was going to have a holiday?”
“No, she didn’t say anything to me. Then maybe she did and didn’t think it was anyone’s business.”
“I suppose that’s possible.”
“Especially if it was with her gentleman friend.”
I perked up at that. “Gentleman friend? What do you know about him?”
“Only that he was no good. His name is Randall Fetherton.”
“Any particular reason why you thought he was no good?”
“He was the type. If you’re asking all these questions, then you’ve spoken to the police?” I nodded and stayed silent until she decided how to continue. The girl studied my face. I recognized it as the examination of someone trying to decide if she could trust me. Apparently, I passed the test. She leaned in and whispered, “Are they certain she didn’t do herself in?”
“Yes, there is no way it could have been that.”
She sighed. “I suppose that’s a good thing, then.”
“Why did you think she might have done that? Was she upset about something?”
“Oh yes. She had just discovered that Mr. Fetherton had another bit on the side.”
“How did she find out?”
“She saw them together. He insisted that the bit of baggage was someone who worked for his mother, but Susan knew that was wrong since she'd been watching his mother's house and knew the people there. He told her she was acting mad and if she didn’t trust him... Well, I told her that was a sure sign he was hiding something, and she said she was going to find proof.”
“And how was she going to do that?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t say. That’s why I thought maybe... But you said it wasn’t. That’s good. He wasn’t worth it. You don’t think she found out who it was and that got her killed, do you?”
“I highly doubt that.” I hoped she hadn’t offered that theory to the police. But it could be why Miss Hayes was at Mrs. Fetherton’s house; if he’d said Milly was employed there, she could have thought there could be some clue inside.
There didn’t seem to be anything else to be learned in her rooms, nothing obvious at least. I went to the desk hoping to see some letters or accounts, but there was nothing but a pen and a dried-out bottle of ink. Wherever she wrote her letters, it wasn’t there.
“Where is the shop where she worked?” The neighbor gave me directions then waited for me to leave the rooms so she could re-lock them with her hairpin. There didn’t seem to be anything else to be learned in the building as the murder hadn’t taken place there, so I thanked the neighbor for her help and went back to the street.
Madame de Breton’s shop was indeed convenient to Miss Hayes’s lodgings. Almost as convenient as my own place of employment, and since I did most of my work from my sitting room, that was quite a high standard. It was a fair-sized shop tucked between a confectionery shop and a stationer’s. Through the window, I could see several bolts of fabric, not likely to be imported from France, but nicely patterned. The evening dresses in the window were of similar design to what I had seen on Regent Street, but with fewer layers of lace and embroidery. When I went inside, the bell above the door rang and a young woman came out from the back of the shop, still wearing her thimble.
“Good afternoon, miss. I’m sorry we’re a bit short-handed at the moment. I can show you some pattern books while you wait for Madame to see you.”
Since I knew why they were short-handed, I didn’t bother with pretense. “I’m a friend of a friend of Miss Hayes. I’m trying to help my friend by finding out what I can about Miss Hayes’s last day.”
“Oh dear. I am sorry. I suppose that it would be a comfort to know why it happened, but I’m afraid I won’t be of much help.”
“You weren’t here that day?”
“She wasn’t. She came in just as we were getting ready to open and told me she felt terrible. I thought she seemed fine, but I’m going to Brighton to visit my sister next Friday, and I was planning on asking to leave early, so I didn’t want her to be able to object. So I told Madame that she had seemed feverish and should probably rest before it became worse. When I first heard she’d died, I thought perhaps she had really been ill. And now I keep thinking if I hadn’t wanted to be certain I had my Friday, Madame might have told her to stay, and she wouldn’t have been there and she might still be alive.” The more she spoke, the quicker the words came, and I had the feeling I was the first person she’d told all of this to.
I patted her arm. “I think she would have gone no matter what. She was trying to find out who her gentleman friend was seeing on the side. If she thought she had a lead, I don’t think much would have persuaded her to wait.” It was a small lie, but I hoped it would be of some comfort. I could see she was being swayed, so I added, “And besides, she may very well have convinced your employer to give her the day off anyway. It really isn’t that hard if you’re determined.”
“I suppose you’re right. But still, if I had said something…”
I was trying to think of something else to say when the door to the back room opened again and another woman came out, this one older and wearing a more elaborately embroidered jacket which would probably have made sewing difficult, although I realized it could be removed if she wanted a more practical dress. She asked in a stage Parisian accent, “Do we have a customer, Miss Dean?”
“No, Madame. She’s a friend of Miss Hayes.”
Her accent dulled at once. “Oh dear, I am so sorry. And we just saw her that morning, so full of life. She asked for the day off, said she was ill, but I know she had been having difficulties with her young man. A silly fool, the gentleman, and if I’m honest, her as well for seeing him. But you see, I thought she might have found out something about his activities and wanted to investigate, so I pretended to believe she was ill, and now…” She shrugged and gestured abstractly. “Was the house she was found in his?”
“I’m not certain.” That wasn’t quite a lie; it was possible that Randall owned the house his mother lived in.
“A pity, a true pity. She was a nice girl, not very bright where the gentlemen were concerned, but still a nice girl.”
“Did she say anything to either of you about what she was looking into?”
They both shook their heads. “She didn’t really say anything about it at all,” Miss Dean said, “more complained about him and how she was sure there was someone else. She did a lot of silly things like go through his mail.”
“There was the address,” Madame de Breton said.
“Address?” I asked, my mind jumping to all sorts of possibilities. Why, blackmail alone could account for all sorts of things.
“That’s right,” Miss Dean nodded. “She saw that he was sending a large number of letters somewhere and said that must be where the woman picked up her letters, even though he had told her it was for business.” But Randall might just be dumb enough to tell me what it really was.
“Thank you, I’m sure she’ll be glad to hear this. It might explain something.”
“She saw the address, though. It was on Cheshire Street.”
That was near the pub where Randall had been meeting Mr. Hargrove. I wondered if the address was simply a place he dropped off his bets, or even the pub if she hadn’t followed him closely enough. In any case, it was doubtful it was related.
As I made for the Underground, I considered what I had learned. I knew a good bit more about Miss Hayes: where she lived, where she worked, that she’d known about Milly, but nothing that would give someone a motive to murder her, except Randall. If he knew she knew about Milly, he might have been angry enough to do it, but that didn’t seem right. And none of it helped Milly.
So if looking into the victim wasn’t helping, then perhaps I nee
ded a different approach. The question was what. All I could think of was alibis, and the only one I had was Nora’s. Trying to find a Miss Smythe which could be written as Smith was not how I wanted to spend my evening, but then perhaps that wasn’t the way to go about it. It was all well and good for Inspector Wainwright to consider making some poor copper sift through lists of “Smith’s” and “Smythe’s” in a proper attempt at verifying it, but I was certain there were all sorts of people at the Delphie who might have seen her there. No, the best thing was to get a feel for the place and for how to ask the question. And that meant tea and cake at the Delphie. It was about the same time in the afternoon as when Nora went, or would be when I got there, even if it was a different day. I should be able to get a feel for the place, at least. She had said she was a regular customer. Perhaps someone at Delphie’s would remember serving her, or at least seeing her, and know when she was there yesterday or notice if she wasn’t. It was worth trying. If I could prove she hadn’t been there, it would force Inspector Wainwright to figure out where she had been. And even if I confirmed her alibi, it would free him up to look into more useful avenues of information, and it might even put him in a good-enough mood once he realized he could stop tracking down every Smith in the receipt book to share why he thought Milly was involved. Then I would only have to disprove that bit of his theory.
Chapter 7
THE DELPHIE TEA ROOM was easy enough to find. It was on a corner, identified by a small sign in the window with very large print. I couldn’t tell if it was trying to draw attention to the establishment or hide the fact that it was a business. Whoever had arranged the sign seemed to have been equally confused. I went inside and found the maître d’, a thin gentleman of average height wearing a formal suit and looking like the most intimidating of butlers standing at the podium with what I guessed was the reservation book. I approached and asked him for a table.
The maître d’ was formal to the point of officiousness and seemed to want to impress upon me my good fortune at being able to get a table without a reservation, even though half the tables seemed to be empty. He found me a place near the middle of the shop, away from the more desirable windows and street views, I noticed, and left me. I ordered a pot of Earl Grey and a slice of Victoria sponge then looked around at the other patrons while I waited for my meal.
