The Right Sort of Man

by Allison Montclair

  “What?” cried Gwen, stumbling for a moment as she reached the door.

  Iris stepped forward and grabbed her arm, steadying her, then hauled her inside with a strength Gwen didn’t know that she possessed and slammed the door shut.

  “The press,” gasped Gwen in shock.

  “I am aware,” said Iris. “That was Gareth Pontefract. Do you know of him?”

  “That greasy little toad from the Daily Mirror?”

  “The same. He paid us a visit while you were away.”

  “Oh, dear God!”

  “Have you recovered enough to climb the steps? We need to have a little war conference.”

  “I’m all right. Lead on, Captain.”

  “Never reached that rank,” said Iris as she started up.

  “What rank did you—”

  “Can’t tell you.”

  “I should have known that would be the answer,” said Gwen.

  Gwen sat down and took the glass of water that Iris poured for her with a silent toast before drinking it.

  “Tell me what happened,” she said.

  Iris filled her in, leaving out the details of her near-assault.

  Gwen looked at her closely when she was done.

  “How did you get rid of him?” she asked.

  “I asked him to leave, and he left,” said Iris smoothly.

  “Did you hurt him much?” asked Gwen, smiling slightly.

  “Ah, maybe a little,” confessed Iris. “His pride more than anything. No lasting damage.”

  “Pity,” said Gwen. “So, Captain—”

  “I already told you—”

  “I believe that you merit a field promotion under the circumstances,” said Gwen. “So, Captain, how much trouble are we in?”

  “Once it hits the papers, I expect the phone to be ringing off the hook with clients wanting their money back.”

  “Do we have to give it to them? Wait! Someone’s coming.”

  “By God, if it’s that Pontefract fellow again, I swear I will not be held accountable for the consequences this time.”

  The steps increased their pace.

  “That’s not him,” said Iris.

  “How do you know?” asked Gwen.

  “That pace would give him a heart attack before he reached the landing. I wish it were him, given that.”

  The door was shoved open, and Detective Sergeant Michael Kinsey strode into the office.

  “Sparks,” he spat. “A word with you. In private. Now.”

  Iris leaned back in her chair and folded her arms.

  “Is this official police business?” she asked.

  “It is not.”

  “Then I am not speaking to you if you’re behaving like this.”

  “And I’m not leaving her alone with you if you are going to continue exhibiting these poor manners,” added Mrs. Bainbridge.

  “I am afraid that I must insist,” said Kinsey.

  “You are in our office,” Mrs. Bainbridge pointed out. “You have no authority here.”

  “And, short of a warrant, none over me,” said Sparks. “Now, take your ill manners and go away.”

  Kinsey’s face was a mask of suppressed rage. Then with a supreme effort, he took a deep breath and drew himself up.

  “Miss Sparks, forgive me,” he said. “May I please speak with you in private on a matter of some personal urgency?”

  “Much better, Detective Sergeant,” said Sparks. “Mrs. Bainbridge, I am going to accompany him to the third floor. Will you please mind the office until I return?”

  Mrs. Bainbridge looked back and forth at both of them, then nodded slowly.

  “Of course, Miss Sparks. It will be my pleasure,” she said.

  Sparks stood up and walked to the door, then stood there.

  “Well?” she said expectantly.

  He turned, flustered, and held the door open for her.

  “Thank you, Detective Sergeant,” she said, and then exited the office gracefully.

  He looked down at the floor for a moment, then followed her.

  “Round one to Sparks,” Gwen whispered to herself.

  The third floor corridor was lit only by one bulb and the sunlight coming through the window opposite the landing. Sparks led him there, then turned to face him, her back to the wall. She waited, saying nothing.

  Kinsey looked at her, his face now unmasking the fury within.

  “Who was it?” he demanded.

  “Be very specific with that question, Mike,” she said. “There are many ways to answer it.”

  “Who did you call to get us to back off?”

  “I have no idea what you mean.”

  “Bollocks!” he said, and she put her hand to her mouth, feigning shock at the language. “Parham received a call from someone. Someone he wouldn’t identify, even to me, and I’m his right-hand man.”

  “I don’t know who called him, Mike,” she replied.

  Technically the truth, she thought. There would have been a string of intermediaries.

  “Where the hell did you get that kind of pull?” asked Kinsey. “How is it that you know someone with enough clout to make us put on the kid gloves when we handle you?”

  “I would not have expected you to own a pair,” said Sparks. “I don’t think they would go with that suit, but fashions are capricious, aren’t they?”

  “The capricious one is you, Sparks,” he said. “Always have been. I should have known that before I—”

  “Before you dropped me?”

  “Before I asked you to be my wife,” he said.

  “You should have accepted me for who I was,” said Sparks.

  “I didn’t know who you were,” said Kinsey.

  “Yet you proposed, which was incautious of you. And I said yes, which was ridiculously conventional of me.”

  “Then I caught you with that Spanish bloke when I came back on leave. What was I to think? Especially after what you said.”

  “What did I say, Mike?”

  “As I stormed away, I heard him ask you who I was. You said, ‘Just a boy from years ago who thought he had some claims on me.’”

  “I didn’t know you understood Spanish,” she said, looking away into the dark corridor. “I’m sorry that you heard that.”

  “What was going on there, Sparks?” he asked. “Did I completely misread the situation? Was it truly an innocent matter?”

  “I won’t tell you, Mike.”

  “I’m seeing all of this in a new light,” he said. “You told me that you were some form of lowly clerk in the War Office. But now I find you have access to people powerful enough to stop Scotland Yard from checking into your background.”

  “My background has nothing to do with the death of Matilda La Salle,” she said. “That’s where you should be directing your efforts.”

  “That case is solved.”

  “No, it isn’t,” she said. “You know it in your bones. You are probably a very good detective, Mike. Trust your instincts on this one.”

  “I trusted them when I dropped you,” he said. “Did I make a mistake?”

  “No,” she said softly. “I’m unreliable, untrustworthy, and guilty of everything that you think I did and more. You’re better off without me.”

  Quicker than thought, he stepped forward, took her in his arms, and kissed her.

  Her first impulse was to throw him down the stairs.

  She resisted it, and let the kiss flood through her. After an eternity, she placed her palms on his chest and gently pushed him away.

  “I’ve already had to manhandle one fellow who tried to get fresh with me today, Mike,” she said. “Don’t make me get rough with you.”

  “I can take anything you can give,” he said.

  “I am not in the giving vein today,” she said.

  She pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her lipstick from his mouth.

  “You’re getting married in a few weeks,” she added. “Or had you forgotten?”

  He d
idn’t say anything.

  “Well, I hope that adequately addresses your inquiries, Detective Sergeant,” she said, tucking the handkerchief back in. “Will there be anything else?”

  “I have nothing else,” he said.

  “Then I have one question for you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you tip off the press about the Right Sort? Maybe after becoming furious at being shut down from looking into my life under the pretext of investigating a case your superior regarded as solved?”

  “I would never do that, Sparks,” he said. “Not even to you.”

  She fervently wished that she had Gwen there to read his face on that answer.

  “All right, Mike,” she said. “Go catch Tillie’s murderer.”

  “That case is closed,” he said. “I’m moving on.”

  “Then move on,” she said. “I hope that the wedding goes smoothly. I hope that she makes you happy.”

  “Thanks,” he said, turning towards the steps down. Then he turned back to look at her.

  “That fellow I caught you with,” he said. “Is he still part of your life?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Good,” he said.

  She watched as he went down the stairs, disappearing from view as he made the turn, the steps fading until she heard the front door open, then slowly close on its own. Then there was silence.

  “No,” she said to the silence. “That man is no longer part of my life, Mike. Or of anyone’s life. Including his own.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Gwen watched without saying a word as Iris returned, opened a bottom drawer, and pulled out a bottle of whisky. She held it up to the light and inspected it, then waved it in Gwen’s direction. Gwen held out her glass and held up one finger.

  Iris poured her a drink, then one for herself. Then she held the glass up to the window, thought for a moment, then doubled it.

  “Are we toasting anything?” asked Gwen.

  “To, to,” muttered Iris. Then she raised her glass high.

  “To hell with all of it!” she shouted, and she tossed back half of the contents of her glass.

  “To hell with all of it,” echoed Gwen, sipping hers. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.”

  “He tried to kiss you, didn’t he?”

  Iris’s hand went immediately to her lips.

  “Is it that obvious?” she asked, reaching for her handbag. She opened the lid to reveal a small mirror and studied her mouth critically. “Yes. He tried to kiss me. Succeeded, too.”

  “I thought that he might.”

  “You could have given me some warning.”

  “What was I supposed to say? ‘Look out! He has lips! And he’s going to use them!’”

  “You don’t have to be—”

  “Or, let me think, I believe that I still remember my semaphore training from the Girl Guides,” continued Gwen.

  She stood and flung out her arms in a series of angular poses.

  “I don’t know semaphore,” said Iris, looking at her in alarm.

  “D, A, N, G, E, R!” Gwen chanted. “L, I, P, S!”

  “He might have noticed you doing that,” said Iris. “He is a detective, after all.”

  “Was it a good kiss?” asked Gwen, resuming her seat.

  “Went through me right down to my toes. I saw our entire relationship flash before my eyes. Mostly the boudoir moments.”

  “I am surprised that you let him.”

  “He caught me off guard.”

  “No,” said Gwen, shaking her head. “You’re never off guard.”

  “Ahhhgg!” cried Iris in exasperation, burying her head in her arms on her desk. “Stupid! So bloody, bloody stupid!”

  “Was it because he’s getting married?” asked Gwen. “Did you want to punish him for being with someone else?”

  “Why are you torturing me?” asked Iris, her face still down and her voice muffled.

  “Why are you torturing yourself?” returned Gwen.

  “I can torture myself as long as I want,” said Iris, pushing herself back up. “I still won’t talk.”

  “Of course,” said Gwen, unconvinced.

  “Tell me about your visit with Trower,” said Iris.

  “Changing the subject won’t make it go away.”

  “This is the subject. This is the only subject from now on. You spoke with him.”

  “Yes,” said Gwen, and she filled Iris in on the details of her morning.

  “Herbert,” said Iris when she was done. “I should have suspected there would be a Herbert. Trower seemed like the goldfish-owning type.”

  “Seems like the type, dear,” Gwen corrected her. “He’s not dead yet.”

  “I have but one question for you,” said Iris.

  “Fire away.”

  “You looked him in the eye. Did you believe him when he said he didn’t kill Miss La Salle?”

  “I did. And I do. I unreservedly believe that he is an innocent man. Do you think that you can persuade Scotland Yard of that?”

  “Not based only on your assessment, no. They’ve closed the case.”

  “Then it’s up to us to put things right,” said Gwen. “Are you willing?”

  Iris sat silently, her eyes focused on a point far beyond the confines of their office. Gwen waited, patient and still in her chair.

  “I have no faith in humanity, not one speck,” said Iris abruptly. “And I might have been like that even before the bloody war came and confirmed everything that I have ever suspected about people. I have ruined every romance I have ever had and have spent far too much time railing against the general unfairness of life.”

  “If you’re expecting me to disagree about the unfairness of life, I have had much more experience with that than you,” said Gwen.

  “I know, I know,” said Iris. “I’m off on one of my solipsistic rants, forgive me. You want to investigate this matter because it’s the right thing to do. What a lovely idea. Lovely, lovely, lovely.”

  “Don’t belittle me.”

  “I’m not. What I’m trying to say is that I’m not like you. I’m destructive. Towards the world and towards myself. I’m Queen Midas with an acid touch instead of gold. Even my attempts to—to do whatever I was trying to do during the war—”

  “Which you can’t talk about.”

  “Which I can’t talk about, which I ended up cocking up miserably on at least two—”

  She stopped, pounded both fists on the desk, and roared in rage. Paper clips bounced everywhere.

  “I survived the damn thing, and then I met up with you and suddenly, I’m doing something positive,” she said. “Something I can take pride and comfort in, and say, how about that, Iris is looking out for others for a change, not to mention earning her own keep. And I’m doing it with another female of the species, a superlative example of womanhood—”

  “Stop immediately,” commanded Gwen.

  “I mean to say that I signed on for this insane enterprise of ours because, among other reasons, I was sick and tired of being under the collective thumb of the men in my life. I wanted to gain control over my existence, and now that is all being threatened because some deranged man stuck a knife in an innocent girl.”

  “Or perhaps not so innocent.”

  “Or perhaps not so innocent,” conceded Iris. “But short of being a murderess herself, she didn’t deserve to be stabbed to death on a night meant for hope. And we certainly don’t deserve to be dragged down because of it. If Dickie Trower goes to the gallows, the scandal will throw our brave little bureau into financial oblivion. We’ve been backed into a corner, and when I’m backed into a corner, I fight and I fight dirty and with any weapon I can get my hands on.”

  “Good,” said Gwen.

  “The first thing I’m going to do is call Sally, because if our business is going to fizzle out after that article breaks, then we’re going to need that forty quid from the Cornwalls to tide us over.”

  “Oh,�
�� said Gwen. “Oh, dear. Has it come to that?”

  “It has. And if I’m going in with you on this investigation, then I need to know you’re with me on every step of the way, including Sally.”

  “Anything left in that bottle?” asked Gwen.

  Iris pulled it out. This time, Gwen held up two fingers.

  “Your turn to toast,” said Iris after she poured.

  Gwen held up her glass.

  “To saving Dickie Trower,” she said. “And maybe ourselves along the way.”

  Iris tapped her glass against Gwen’s, and they drank them down.

  “What’s our next step after calling Sally?” asked Gwen.

  “We need to find out more about Miss La Salle,” said Iris. “I’ve already made some inquiries. There’s going to be a viewing starting at four. Shadwell address. I’ll go—”

  “We’ll go,” said Gwen firmly.

  “No,” said Iris. “This isn’t what you do. I can blend in and winnow out information. I’ve had training. You’d stick out like a sore thumb. A very tall sore thumb. More of a sore middle finger.”

  “Lovely metaphor, thanks very much,” said Gwen. “But I repeat, we’ll go. We are in this together, we shall investigate it together. You need me. I’m a better judge of people than you are, and I’m not basing that solely upon our comparative romantic histories. You know this to be true.”

  “How are you in a fight?” asked Iris.

  “Will it actually come to that?”

  “We’ll be chasing down someone who stabbed a girl through the heart. It might actually be dangerous.”

  “‘Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray. My legs are longer though, to run away,’” quoted Gwen.

  “‘I am amazed and know not what to say,’” responded Iris immediately. “I played Hermia at Cambridge, you won’t sneak any Midsummer lines by me. Seriously, any oomph when you swing those long limbs of yours?”

  “Haven’t been in a fight since childhood, but at least we won’t be going in unaware. Forewarned is forearmed in our case.”

  “And we have four arms between us, so there’s that,” said Iris. “All right. Come to the funeral parlour with me. But follow my lead. Let me do the talking.”

  “I’ve never been able to stop you,” said Gwen. “Fine. You talk, I’ll observe.”

  “Good,” said Iris.

  She picked up the phone receiver and dialed a number.