The Right Sort of Man

by Allison Montclair

  “Have there been others besides George and Em?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve got a knack. My goodness, I’ve been rattling on about myself, haven’t I? Where do you know Emily from?”

  “Boarding school and Cambridge,” said Iris. “Lost touch during the festivities of the last few years, but she reached out to me after the engagement.”

  “Really? Why then?”

  “Truth be told, she wanted me to do a little quiet digging into George’s background to make sure there were no family skeletons lying in wait.”

  “Is that something you normally do?”

  “Well, no, but I’m naturally nosy and I’ve got some helpful connections.”

  “Friends in high places?”

  “And low. The latter are sometimes more useful.”

  “I take it there were no skeletons.”

  “None. Not even the tiniest phalange. He’s one of the good ones.”

  “I sensed that,” said Gwen.

  “Then we have approval from both your ethereal plane and my jaundiced underworld,” said Iris.

  “We make a good team,” said Gwen, holding up her glass.

  “Good on us,” said Iris, tapping hers against it and finishing it. She glanced at the bar reluctantly. “I had better pretend I have some self-control. Shall we get some cake?”

  “By all means,” said Gwen. “Would you care to meet up sometime after today?”

  “I would be delighted,” said Iris, pulling a small notebook and pencil out of her handbag and handing it to her.

  They exchanged numbers, then headed for the cake.

  They had lunch two days later, and by the end of it had planned The Right Sort. Neither could remember who was the initiator of the idea, which is why they both knew it was perfect.

  Gwen didn’t need the money, although it was nice to have. She needed the occupation to fill the empty hours that she once hoped would be spent with a loving husband raising their perfect child.

  Children, if all had gone to plan, but the war had other plans, didn’t it?

  Three months later, it was with these gloomy thoughts that she climbed the four flights to their office, to find that Iris had got there first and was busy scribbling away on her pad.

  “Good mornin’, pardner,” she drawled as Gwen hung her beret on the coat-tree. “Nice of you to mosey in.”

  “I am two minutes early,” she said. “Why are you a cowboy today?”

  “I saw a Western last night,” said Iris. “It put me in the mood.”

  “What are you working on?”

  “I am indexing our clientele by height,” she said. “Our Miss La Salle was so insistent about it. It got me to thinking we should list everyone by physical characteristics as well as everything else.”

  “I suppose so,” said Gwen, sitting behind her desk.

  “You don’t sound enthusiastic,” said Iris.

  “Just tired,” said Gwen. “I had a bad night.”

  “What was the matter?”

  “I dreamed about Ronnie,” said Gwen. “It was a nightmare. It felt like a premonition.”

  “Of what?”

  “If I knew, I’d do something to stop it,” said Gwen. “It’s all silly nonsense, I know.”

  “My Auntie Elizabeth used to have dreams that she thought were prophecies,” said Iris thoughtfully. “She’d dream about a goat falling over a stile, or some such, and cry, ‘There will be calamity! Mark my words!’ And maybe the next week someone would bark their knee on a car door, and she would scream, ‘Aha!’”

  “I fail to see the connection between the two,” said Gwen.

  “Oh, there absolutely was none,” said Iris. “Which is why I’m saying…”

  “Someone’s coming,” Gwen interrupted her.

  “Prophecy?”

  “No,” said Gwen. “I can hear them on the stairs.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Iris, sitting up straight. “More than one. Curious.”

  A man appeared in the doorway wearing a brown wool suit. He had brown hair, greying at the temples, matched by an equally grey mustache.

  He was followed by a younger man dressed similarly. A good-looking fellow, Gwen thought, if he smiled. He certainly wasn’t smiling at the moment. The two of them were followed by a uniformed constable.

  She glanced over at her partner, who was staring at the second man with an expression of bemused shock.

  She knows him, realized Gwen. Well, best take the initiative.

  She rose to her feet, letting her height impress them.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said in her politest tone. “I am Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge. How may we help you?”

  “Then she’s Sparks?” asked the older man.

  “She is,” said Sparks. “Who is he?”

  “Detective Superintendent Philip Parham, Central Office, CID,” he said, flashing his identification card. “These are Detective Sergeant Kinsey and Police Constable Larkin.”

  “I am so pleased to make your acquaintances,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “I take it that none of you are looking for a wife at the moment.”

  “Hardly,” said Parham. “We’re here about a Matilda La Salle, better known as Tillie La Salle. I believe the two of you know the young lady.”

  “A client of ours,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Has she made a complaint?”

  “She has cause for one,” said Parham. “But I’m afraid she’s in no position to file it. She was murdered last night.”

  “What?” exclaimed Mrs. Bainbridge.

  “Oh, the poor girl,” said Sparks. “What happened? Do you know who did it?”

  “Not yet,” said Parham. “We came here hoping to find out.”

  “Here? Why here?” asked Mrs. Bainbridge.

  “Because you may have introduced her to the man who killed her,” said Parham. “So we’ll have to have a look at your files.”

  “Our files? Oh, no, that’s quite impossible. You shan’t,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. She stood in front of the file cabinet. She wondered for a moment if it would be more effective if she flung her arms to its sides to protect it further, but settled instead for folding them in front of her while assuming an expression of what she hoped was stern reprimand.

  “Shan’t?” repeated Parham. “She actually said ‘shan’t,’ didn’t she, Kinsey?”

  “She did, sir,” said Kinsey.

  “Why shan’t we?” asked Parham.

  “Our clientele come to us on matters of great personal intimacy,” she said. “We regard these matters as confidential. So you may neither willy nor nilly ransack these people’s lives.”

  Parham stepped between the desks to face her, which had the additional effect of trapping her in the small space behind hers. The other two policemen watched.

  “Constable Larkin,” he said.

  “Sir,” replied Larkin.

  “Mrs. Bainbridge has brought up confidentiality as a barrier to our investigation.”

  “So it would seem, sir.”

  “This seems an opportune moment to test your knowledge of confidentiality as it applies to police investigations. Are you up to the task?”

  “I believe I am, sir.”

  “Name the various forms of confidentiality.”

  “Well, sir, there’s the confessional.”

  “Very good, Constable. We may extend that to religion in general.”

  “Yes, sir. That seems fair.”

  “Now, do you observe any confessional here?”

  “I do not, sir.”

  “Any vestments on the ladies standing before us? Any of the more obvious accoutrements of holiness?”

  “No, sir. But they might be one of those modern religions.”

  “Constable, you rightfully rebuke me for my narrow view of the topic. Mrs. Bainbridge, are the two of you in fact running a religious order here?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she replied. “Perhaps we should.”

  “Then that’s out. Constable, what else?”

  �
�Medical privilege, sir.”

  “I see no indications of any such practices here, Constable,” said Parham. “Although one might make the case that they treat maladies of the heart.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” remarked Mrs. Bainbridge.

  “Indeed I am, Mrs. Bainbridge. Next, Constable?”

  “Er, I believe that attorneys and their clients have that special relationship.”

  “They do, they do, Constable,” beamed Parham. “You are doing exceedingly well. And once again, the lack of a legal license on display would rule that out. Now, the final one.”

  “It’s on the tip of my tongue,” he said. “But I cannot think of it.”

  “Come, come, Constable. The most common one.”

  “Ah, yes. The marriage bed, sir.”

  “Precisely. And in fact, the least likely one, given the professed occupation of these ladies. If they were married to their clients, then it would be rotten luck for all the poor sods who come in here expecting matrimonial opportunity.”

  “And bigamy, sir.”

  “That, too, Constable.”

  He turned back to Mrs. Bainbridge.

  “Therefore, I must ask you to step aside, Mrs. Bainbridge,” he said, no longer in a bantering mode. “Any further obstruction will be regarded—”

  “My father-in-law is Lord Harold Bainbridge,” she said. “He would take it very badly indeed—”

  “Is Lord Harold Bainbridge affiliated with the London Metropolitan Police?” asked Parham.

  “Well, no. But he’s tremendously influential.”

  “Not with me, he’s not.”

  “Excuse me,” said Iris. “Would you all mind keeping it down for a moment? I have our solicitor on the telephone.”

  They turned to look at her sitting calmly at her desk, the receiver against her ear.

  “Hello,” she said. “Is that you, Sir Geoffrey? It’s Sparks. Iris Sparks, yes. How are you? It’s good of you to come to our aid so quickly. We are having a bit of a contretemps with the local constabulary. No, no, I didn’t do anything. This time. They’re investigating a murder case, and they wish to poke through our files sans warrant. Yes, I suppose it does sound rather exciting from your end, but we are in the thick of it. What do you advise?”

  She listened for a moment.

  “That’s an excellent question,” she said. “I shall ask.”

  She placed her hand over the receiver.

  “Detective Superintendent, are Mrs. Bainbridge and I suspects?” she asked.

  “Certainly not,” said Parham.

  “Is he telling the truth, Mrs. Bainbridge?” asked Sparks.

  “He is,” she said, studying his face so intently that he shivered for a moment.

  “Sir Geoffrey? He says that we are not. He sounded very firm about it. I’m inclined to take him at his word. You do. Very good, Sir Geoffrey. Thank you for your time. Give my love to Samantha.”

  She hung up, then nodded at Mrs. Bainbridge.

  “He believes that a proper warrant would have been the better part of practice,” she said. “But in light of the urgency of the matter, he suggests that we assist them in their inquiries.”

  “Very well,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Detective Superintendent, how may we help you?”

  Parham turned to the others and raised his eyebrows in exasperation. Kinsey shrugged and Larkin remained stone-faced. Parham turned back to Mrs. Bainbridge.

  “We need to know the names and addresses of all the men you set her up with,” he said. “And view any correspondence.”

  She turned, opened the top cabinet, and pulled out the file for Dickie Trower.

  “She signed with us Monday a week ago,” she said, handing it to him. “This was our first match for her. But I doubt that he’s your man. There’s not a speck of evil or violence in him. I will vouch for him myself.”

  “So will I,” said Sparks.

  “Unfortunately, we must be the judges of that,” said Parham. “I must direct you to have no contact with him until we have completed our investigation. Thank you, ladies.”

  He handed the file to PC Larkin, who wrote out a receipt and handed it to Gwen.

  “One more thing,” said Parham. “You list yourselves as proprietors on your sign.”

  “We do,” said Mrs. Bainbridge.

  “A term reserved for men, I believe.”

  “Proprietresses is so awkward to say,” said Sparks.

  “And proprietrix sounds vaguely—illicit, don’t you think?” asked Mrs. Bainbridge.

  Kinsey, standing behind Parham, smiled briefly.

  “Well, I don’t like it,” said Parham.

  “We shall endeavour to carry on under the weight of your disapproval,” said Mrs. Bainbridge, humbly casting her eyes downwards. “Good day, gentlemen. Good hunting.”

  “Detective Superintendent,” said Sparks. “Might I have a word with the Detective Sergeant for a moment?”

  Parham glanced at Kinsey, who shrugged noncommittally. “Be quick about it,” he said, and he and the constable left.

  Iris looked at Kinsey for a long moment. He stood there, expressionless.

  Smooth man, thought Gwen. And he is choking on his anger under that smooth demeanour.

  “Hello, Mike,” said Iris.

  “Sparks,” he returned.

  Gwen sat down quietly and watched.

  “I never thought I’d run into you in your professional capacity,” said Iris.

  “I never thought I’d run into you at all,” he said. “Complete coincidence, or the vicissitudes of Fate. Our squad was up on the rota. How long have you been at this?”

  “Three months.”

  “Doing well, is it?”

  “Tolerably well.”

  “Hmph,” he said, looking around. “The irony of you brokering marriages does not escape me.”

  “I knew you were going to say something along those lines,” she said. “Speaking of which, I hear congratulations are in order.”

  “You know,” he said warily.

  “Beryl Stansfield.”

  “You can leave her name out of this and all future conversations,” he snapped. “I will not have you—”

  “I was going to say well done,” she said softly. “If I had been given the task of finding you the best possible match, Beryl would have been at the top of the list.”

  “Oh,” he said, more confused than mollified. “Well. Thanks, then. Better than the last one, certainly.”

  “She certainly is,” agreed Iris.

  “Is that it?”

  “That’s it,” said Iris. “I am glad to see you doing so well. I mean that.”

  “I’d best be off,” he said, stepping to the doorway.

  “Mike?”

  “What, Sparks?” he said.

  “How was Miss La Salle killed?”

  “Stabbed,” he said. “Once through the heart. It was neatly done.”

  “Stabbed through the heart,” she repeated.

  “Yes,” he said. “Which is why I disagree with the Detective Superintendent about ruling you out as a suspect.”

  Iris smiled at him, a hard, brittle smile that made him shrink a little.

  “Go catch your murderer, Mike,” she said. “And don’t come back here until you’ve learned better manners, or I’ll tell your mother that you’ve been bothering innocent girls.”

  “I’ll give Mrs. Bainbridge the benefit of the doubt,” he said. “But you, sweetheart, are no innocent.”

  He turned and walked out.

  Gwen looked at Iris, who was still staring at the vacated doorway.

  “And that was—” began Gwen.

  “Fiancé Number Two,” said Iris.

  “The One Who Got Away.”

  “Something like that,” said Iris, sitting back down.

  “He doesn’t like you.”

  “Not without reason,” said Iris.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Can’t,” said Iris
. “War stories.”

  “Which you will never tell.”

  “Someday, when we’re old,” said Iris. “And probably not even then.”

  “What did you think of Parham?”

  “Not my type,” said Iris. “Likes to show off to the subordinates and bully women. Didn’t strike me as a man with much real imagination.”

  “He seems like someone who forms a theory first, and then goes looking for facts to fit it,” observed Gwen.

  “Mike, on the other hand, has an imagination,” said Iris. “Too much of one, as I recall.”

  “Iris,” said Gwen. “Tell me this isn’t our fault. Promise me that we are not in any way, shape, or form responsible for that poor girl’s death.”

  “How would we be?”

  “If Dickie Trower did it, and we introduced them—”

  “He’s a false trail,” said Iris. “We both know he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s just the first lead and the easiest one. They’ll rule him out by tomorrow morning, mark my words.”

  “But if we’re wrong—”

  “We aren’t.”

  “How can you be so certain? How much do we truly know about people after just one interview?”

  “More than most, dear,” replied Iris. “I did follow up with some informal vetting when we met him, and he came through with flying colours. More important, you thought him a decent chap, and I have absolute faith in your perceptions.”

  “There’s always a first time,” said Gwen. “Damn. What if this was what my dream was about?”

  “Piffle. In any case, there is nothing we can do, so let’s see what their investigation turns up.”

  * * *

  It only proved to be a matter of hours. Both ladies looked up as a clatter of footsteps approached from the stairwell. Then Kinsey, Larkin, and a third man burst through the doorway.

  “Hands off that typewriter,” commanded Kinsey, pointing at Sparks who froze, fingers poised over the keys.

  “It’s the Drudgery Police, Gwen,” she said out the side of her mouth. “We’re done for!”

  “Thank goodness you got here in time, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “We were in danger of actually getting some work done today.”

  “Move away from the desk, Sparks,” said Kinsey.

  “What on earth for?” exclaimed Sparks.

  “We need to fingerprint your machine. Godfrey, take Miss Sparks’s exemplars.”