The Right Sort of Man

by Allison Montclair

“On the fake letter to Dickie. It wasn’t from around here. It was from the Croydon Post Office.”

  Gwen thumbed through her file box and produced Dickie Trower’s card.

  “He lives in Croydon,” she said. “What do you make of that?”

  “If he wanted to fake a letter to himself as a plausible excuse for breaking the date, he’d be more likely to mail it in his own neighbourhood,” said Iris. “That would make certain it was delivered more quickly.”

  “Do you think the police will have come to that conclusion already?”

  “Most likely,” said Iris.

  Gwen looked dolefully at the fingerprints and powder covering the filing cabinet.

  “We have no cleaning supplies,” she noted. “I’m going to borrow some from Mister MacPherson.”

  She went down the steps, lost in thought, and sought out MacPherson’s rooms in the basement. A sporadic trail of bare yellow bulbs buzzing in their sockets lit the hallway and the doors concealing the boiler and the electricals. Gwen had only been down here twice, the first time being when the custodian had given them the tour of the building and insisted on showing them the equipment stored for its maintenance. Equipment that she almost never saw put to actual use since they had moved in.

  She also knew there was a thriving community of rats down there, and she hoped to make her visit short.

  She came to MacPherson’s door—badly in need of painting, but who would care to inspect it? It did have an actual brass plaque, with “Angus MacPherson, Senior Custodian” engraved on it.

  She was unaware of the existence of any junior custodian during their tenure there. Perhaps he had been taken by rats, or lived some Renfieldian existence in the shadows behind the boiler.

  She rapped lightly on the door. There was no reply. She knocked again more firmly, and there was a sudden strangled cry and a crash.

  She went through the door quickly to find the old man getting up from the floor beside a camp cot at the rear of the room.

  “Don’t you know better than to disturb a man when he’s sleeping?” he roared.

  “My apologies,” said Gwen. “I didn’t know that was on your agenda.”

  “For future reference, I have a bit of a kip in the late morning,” he said. “I am not to be disturbed then except for the direst of emergencies.”

  “Duly noted,” said Gwen. “I confess that this is not such an occasion.”

  “Social visit, then?” asked MacPherson.

  She thought that she detected a hint of hopefulness in the question.

  “I’m afraid not,” she said. “I was wondering if I might borrow some cleaning supplies. Nothing too toxic or industrial, please.”

  “Cleaning supplies?” he repeated. “What’s the nature of the befoulment of my property?”

  “Your property?”

  “Mine to manage. Was there an accident?”

  “No. We had a visit from the police.”

  “The police?” he exclaimed, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I thought you were running a respectable establishment.”

  “We are,” said Gwen. “But one of our clients—well, that’s neither here nor there. Do you have anything suitable for cleaning metal surfaces?”

  He went over to a shelf holding a number of spray bottles and selected one. Then he plucked a rag from a hook on the wall and handed them both to her. She accepted the rag gingerly, wondering if it might more likely transfer grime to a surface than remove it.

  There was an array of keys hanging from hooks below the shelf.

  “You have a spare set for our office?” she asked.

  “For every office,” he said. “Why?”

  “In case I ever mislay mine,” she said. “It’s good to know about. Thank you, Mister MacPherson.”

  She climbed the stairs.

  “It’s late afternoon, isn’t it?” she asked when she walked back inside their office.

  “It is,” said Iris. “Why?”

  “Mister MacPherson exists in a different time zone than we do,” said Gwen. “Or else he is a prodigious napper.”

  “Either explains much,” said Iris. “Drink would explain more. Would you like me to do that? I suspect that you’ve never cleaned fingerprints before.”

  “I have to learn sometime,” said Gwen.

  She sprayed and wiped down the file cabinet, then handed over the bottle and rag to Iris who tenderly applied them to her Bar-Let.

  “Where would Dickie be now?” asked Gwen, watching her.

  “Jail,” said Iris. “Bound over for Assizes or Quarter Sessions, I suppose. I don’t know which handles murder cases.”

  “Will he have bail?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Which jail would he be kept in?”

  “Brixton, I should think.”

  “Right,” said Gwen. “How do I get there?”

  Iris looked at her partner appraisingly. Gwen was sitting up straight in her chair, staring out the window, seeing something other than the view of the sunlight waning over London.

  “It’s so interesting that you think I know the answer to that,” said Iris.

  “You’re the one with friends in low places,” Gwen reminded her. “And Cambridge. I thought between the two, you might have visited the Brixton jail upon occasion.”

  “I’m more of a Wormwood Scrubs girl,” said Iris, opening a drawer. “All the best criminals go there.”

  She pulled out a folded map and handed it across.

  “Time to learn the bus routes, dear,” she said.

  “Thank you,” said Gwen, unfolding and studying it carefully. “I’ll be coming in late tomorrow.”

  “Oh, golly,” sighed Iris, staring at the vastness of the empty space between them and the door. “I do hope that I can handle the rush of business. Give Mister Trower my regards.”

  “I will,” promised Gwen.

  * * *

  Iris lay next to Andrew, her mind elsewhere despite his thoughtful ministrations.

  “Your name came up today,” he said.

  “Did it? Casual reminiscences? Nostalgia for pre-war party girls?”

  “The Brigadier says that you telephoned. He wanted to know more about what you were doing with this business enterprise of yours.”

  “He asked you?”

  “He did.”

  “He knows about us. Damn.”

  “It’s his job to know about the people working for him. And the people who used to work for him. Especially when they get involved in murder cases.”

  “Are you interrogating me on his behalf?” asked Iris, shoving his hands away from her and sitting up. “Your technique is wanting.”

  “You’ve never complained about my technique before,” he said, grinning. “No, I’m not interrogating you. I’m merely curious as to why you didn’t mention the murder. I would think it would be the principal topic of discussion.”

  “I didn’t see that it would set the proper mood,” said Iris. “I wanted to make love, not talk about dead girls.”

  “Still—”

  “I only have you for a few nights out of a blue moon,” said Iris. “I want to make the most of them. And I don’t like the Brigadier knowing about us.”

  “He approves, for what it’s worth,” said Andrew. “He’d rather my infidelities be with one of us than, say, a fetching Russky lass.”

  “He still thinks of me as one of us? One of you, I should say?”

  “As he put it, you’re family.”

  “Oh, I dislike that intensely,” she said, hugging her knees to her chest. “It makes this all sound incestuous.”

  “Well, I don’t think of it that way,” said Andrew. “So, what was the murder about? Did you do it?”

  “Stop,” said Iris. “It isn’t a joking matter. One of our clients, a young woman, was stabbed to death a few days after signing with us. They arrested the man with whom we arranged her first date.”

  “And you feel responsible.”

  “I do not. People kil
l each other occasionally, and that’s got nothing to do with me. It happened, they arrested someone, and it’s all over but the hanging.”

  “Unfortunate. How is your partner handling the situation?’

  “Oh, God, she’s convinced that the fellow is completely innocent. She wants us to drop everything and go investigate it.”

  Andrew began to laugh.

  “What?” Iris asked, glaring at him.

  “Just picturing the two of you, banging about where the police fear to tread,” he said. “Has she any skills in the area?”

  “Apart from a frighteningly accurate ability to read people, none,” said Iris. “But she also has something I’ve never had and never will have.”

  “Which is?”

  “Goodness,” said Iris simply. “She’s a good person. She’s actually a good person. I’m in business with a good person. Me. Who is not a good person. Who is neither a person who is good nor good at being a person. It’s laughable that I’m mixed up in the marriage-making business. Mike was right.”

  “Mike? Which Mike?”

  “Ah, the gentleman perks up. I didn’t tell you the worst part.”

  “Worse than a girl getting herself stabbed to death?”

  “All right, not as bad as that. Among the investigators is one Detective Sergeant Michael Kinsey.”

  “Really? How extraordinary! How was the reunion?”

  “Tense. Tortured. Everything one could have hoped for upon encountering an ex-fiancé.”

  “No forgiveness for your—indiscretion, then.”

  “Not likely in this lifetime or the next. He saw what he saw, drew the logical conclusions, and that was an end to it.”

  “And you’ve never explained the truth to him?”

  “Said explanation is covered by which section of the Official Secrets Act again?”

  “I’m sure the Brigadier would bend the rules for you on that.”

  “And I’m just as sure that he would then hold it over me for the rest of my life. I don’t care to owe him that favour. Besides, if Mike were really the man for me, he would have accepted the situation, stiffened the old upper lip, forgiven me my obvious wartime lapse, and taken me back. Since he did none of those things, he clearly wasn’t worth any more effort on my part. To hell with the bastard.”

  “There’s my girl,” said Andrew admiringly. “Never let sympathy get in the way of getting the job done.”

  “That was not one of your better sweet nothings, I must say.”

  “It brings me to my next topic.”

  “Which is?”

  “The Brigadier would like you back.”

  “Back? You mean—”

  “Back in the field.”

  “Which field?”

  “Germany, for starters.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Working under me,” he said. “And don’t make the obvious joke. You’d be ideal. The opposition has never seen you. You’re fluent in all the necessary languages, you’ve already had most of the training, and the best part is we could see much more of each other than we do now.”

  “Except the Russkies would know about me inside of one clandestine rendezvous,” Iris pointed out.

  “Not if we’re careful.”

  “There’s always a careless moment in these matters,” said Iris. “You’d be making more mistakes with me more available to you. I’m surprised the Russkies haven’t stumbled onto this little love nest by now.”

  “Yet they haven’t.”

  “Andrew, you know why I can’t do this,” said Iris. “The real reason.”

  “Oh, bollocks, Sparks. You don’t have to get on a plane to get there. Take the bloody ferry and a few trains. It would be less obvious an entrance, anyway.”

  “It’s not the flying, Andrew,” said Iris, looking away. “It’s all of it. Facing where the girls all died without me.”

  “That wasn’t your fault, Sparks,” said Andrew. “None of it.”

  “But I should have been with them. Maybe I would have spotted that damned traitor. Maybe I could have saved them.”

  “Or maybe you would have died along with them. What’s the point of beating yourself up about it now?”

  “I’m sorry, Andrew,” said Iris. “It’s just that the trial’s coming up soon. It’s been bringing up much that I’ve been forcing down, and I’m not enjoying it one bit. Tell the Brigadier thanks, but no thanks, all right?”

  “Don’t make this your final decision,” Andrew urged her. “You were made for this work.”

  “I don’t know what I’m made for,” said Iris. “Now, do me a favour.”

  “Anything. What is it?”

  “Shut up and make me forget about all of this.”

  “Gladly.”

  And for a while, she did. But after, when he lay sleeping next to her, she stared up at the darkened ceiling and saw the faces of dead girls.

  CHAPTER 4

  Gwen unfolded the Greater London bus map at the breakfast table and studied the intricate tangle of red, blue, and green lines. She had not wanted to admit to Iris her unfamiliarity with the city in which she had grown up, married, and attempted to raise a child, but she had in fact never thoroughly explored it. Indeed, it wasn’t until late wartime that she had traveled by means of either Tube or bus. All of her journeys had been effectuated by either chauffeurs or cabbies, and she paid little attention to the routes involved. She had a vague idea where the East End lay, or at least that section where the Cunard ships had carried her off to other worlds when she was growing up. She knew Wimbledon, of course, but the majority of the interconnected sections of the city were more foreign to her than, say, the opulent houses of Biarritz or the slopes of Gstaad.

  She didn’t know where Brixton was. She didn’t even know which part of the map she should be searching. She settled for methodically tracing her finger back and forth across each section, trying to find the name.

  Prudence came in with the teapot.

  “Going on a trip, Ma’am?” she asked.

  “Prudence, do you know where Brixton is?” asked Gwen, giving up.

  “Brixton, Ma’am?” asked Prudence, coming to peer over her shoulder at the map. “That’s south. There, Ma’am. See where Battersea Park is? To the right and down.”

  “Oh, yes, thank you,” said Gwen. “Now, how would I get there from here? This map is like finding intersecting strands of spaghetti in a pot.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know that,” said Prudence. “I don’t go to Brixton. Let me fetch Albert for you.”

  “No, I don’t want to trouble—” Gwen began, but Prudence was already out the door in search of the chauffeur.

  Gwen sighed and stared at the map some more. She found Croydon, where she had her fateful encounter with Iris at the wedding. Where Dickie Trower lived as well. It wasn’t far from Brixton. She wondered if any of his family or friends were visiting him.

  If they even knew of his predicament. She wasn’t certain that she would tell anyone if she was in his position. The shame and embarrassment of being arrested and locked up, even if one was innocent. Of being strapped to a gurney—

  She shook off that memory, and was composedly sipping her tea when Prudence returned, Albert in tow. He was a short man in his early sixties who had driven three generations of Bainbridges in a series of expensive cars for over forty years. He was still buttoning his black uniform jacket when he came in.

  “Good morning, Ma’am,” he said giving her a brief salute. “Going to Brixton, are we? Will you be there long? Lady Carolyne needs me to take her to the plant later. I can bring the car around—”

  “Oh, I wish you hadn’t gone to this much trouble,” said Gwen. “I was only asking which bus route takes one there.”

  “Bus?” The concept seemed to flummox him. “You’re taking the bus?”

  “If I can figure out the route,” she said.

  “Well,” he said, coming over with Prudence to look at the map. “I’m not much of a bus-taker. It all de
pends where in Brixton you wish to go.”

  “It’s an address on Jebb Avenue,” she said.

  “Jebb Avenue?” he said, looking at her sharply. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Ma’am, you shouldn’t be going there. That’s where the prison is, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” she asked with what she hoped was innocent ignorance. “Well, I shall certainly avoid that. I meant to say, an address near Jebb Avenue.”

  “There’s a Tube station at Brixton Market,” he offered, stabbing at the location. “Might be the quickest.”

  “Not the Tube,” she said with a shudder.

  “Bus, then,” he said, peering at the map. “Funny, I haven’t taken a lot of buses since I’ve come to this house. But to get anywhere, you have to figure out where you want to be, then trace it back to where you are. There’s the 133, but that goes over London Bridge, that’s too far. Lots of Green Line buses—you can catch one of them by Westminster, Baker Street—oh!”

  “Yes?”

  “The 159. That looks like your best bet. You can catch it at Trafalgar Square or Westminster—”

  “What on earth are you all doing?” came a voice from behind them.

  The three turned with a collective guilty start. Lady Carolyne stood in the entrance to the room. She was wearing a black silk kimono with a scarlet sash to match the lining visible in the sleeves, decorated with a scene of snow-covered evergreen branches with a mountain looming in the background, thrusting imperiously upwards, perhaps that famous one that everyone referred to but whose name Gwen could never remember.

  Lady Carolyne’s head perched atop this Japanese scene, her expression colder than the mountain cap hovering just below her bosom. Her eyes were less bleary than Gwen was accustomed to seeing this time of morning, at least on the rare mornings when Lady Carolyne emerged at all. There must have been no dinner party for her to attend last night, leaving her to drink at home. She tended to drink less when someone else wasn’t footing the bill.

  She was a woman somewhere past fifty, the actual distance being an official secret clouded in a haze of denial. Even in her most hungover states, she never left her dressing room less than perfectly made up. Yet even the strongest of powders and creams were powerless to force her normal expression from its perpetual scowl, which at the moment was directed at the three aspiring navigators.