“Sally? It’s Sparks,” she said. “We have a job for you.”
* * *
Celia Cornwall, née Maitland, was happily spooning warm milk over the scalloped potatoes when the doorbell rang. She hesitated, wondering if she should finish the task and plop the dish into the oven before the milk cooled down. Maybe the matter on the other side of the door was something that could be handled briefly, or politely put in abeyance until she finished.
The bell rang again. The ringer held it longer this time. It sounded insistent.
She sighed, put down the spoon, and went to open the front door.
Her first view was of a man’s chest, bulging in a broad charcoal grey suit jacket with white stripes that looked like they were carefully drawn on with chalk and ruler. The red silk handkerchief folded perfectly in the pocket matched the tie, and the shirt looked tailored—well, it would have to have been, given the size of the man it enclosed.
She had yet to see his face, but a voice drifted down from above, and she looked up to see him smiling down at her. It was not a nice smile.
“Mrs. Cornwall?” he asked. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Celia Cornwall? Formerly Miss Celia Maitland of East Ham?”
“Y-yes,” she stammered. “I am Mrs. Cornwall. Who are you?”
“Forgive my manners, Mrs. Cornwall,” he said, removing his trilby. “My name is Salvatore Danielli. My friends call me Sally.”
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Right to the point, very good,” he said, beaming. “First of all, may I congratulate you on the happy occasion of your recent nuptials. I wish both you and Mister Cornwall joy and long life.”
“Thank you,” she said automatically. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m making dinner—”
“I won’t be long, I assure you,” he said. “Now, I am here on a somewhat delicate matter, that being the debt that you and Mister Cornwall, Aloysius, is it? Yes, Aloysius. A debt, as I was saying, of forty pounds that you owe to the source of your marital bliss, that being the Right Sort Marriage Bureau.”
She meant to slam the door in his face, but he seemed to have foreknowledge of her design. He merely rested one of his massive hands lightly on the open door, and she found that she could not budge it.
“We do not owe them anything,” she said. “Aloysius? Aloysius! Come down, darling. There’s a man at the door.”
“What is it? What is it?” came a querulous voice from above, and Mister Aloysius Cornwall came downstairs. He was a scrawny fellow, still in his stocking feet and in need of a shave. He stood next to his wife and gaped upwards at their visitor.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked.
“Mister Cornwall, perfect,” said Sally. “I was just informing your wife of my intention to collect the marriage fee of twenty pounds each that you now owe the Right Sort Marriage Bureau as a result of their successful efforts on your two behalves. They need to be made whole by your payment. I believe two behalves make a bewhole, don’t they?”
“What?” spouted Mister Cornwall. “They expect us to pay forty pounds? They had nothing to do with this. We met independently of them. Quite the chance romantic encounter.”
“Ah, but there is correspondence indicating the contrary,” said Sally. “And even without it, your claims will stand you to no good stead in a court of law.”
“Why? Why wouldn’t they?”
“If you will review your contracts, and copies of both with your signatures remain with the bureau, you will find that the language of Paragraph Eight explicitly states that the fee shall be paid upon marriage to any other client of the Right Sort, irregardless of the number of introductions made or the amount of work done by the bureau. This is plain and simple English. You both signed contracts earlier this year. You are both clients, and were at the time that you exchanged vows in the eyes of God and England. The language of Paragraph Eight, you will find, is binding and all-encompassing, and any efforts to forestall the payment will only amount to unnecessary legal expenditure on your part.”
“You’re bluffing!” sputtered Mister Cornwall.
He seized the door with both hands and attempted to force it shut. Sally looked at him with pity. Mister Cornwall put his shoulder into the effort. The door remained motionless.
“Mister Cornwall, I do not bluff,” said Sally. “A man of my size is sadly deprived of the gift of subtlety. I am here to facilitate a process in lieu of court action. My clients would very much like to avoid legal proceedings. I myself have come to have a healthy respect for the courts based upon some previous experiences which I would rather not detail, and I suggest that it would be in your benefit to avoid the same.”
“I don’t have the money on me,” said Mister Cornwall, giving up his efforts and puffing heavily.
“Now, I didn’t expect that you would, what with me showing up on your doorstep unannounced-like,” said Sally. “My arrangement with the Right Sort covers three visits. The first, which is happening as we speak, is, shall we say, informatory in nature. The second, which will be at this time tomorrow, will be confirmatory. I shall arrive, you shall fork over the forty quid, and bygones will be themselves again. Have I sufficiently explained everything? Do you have any questions?”
“You said three visits,” said Mrs. Cornwall.
“The third visit only becomes necessary if there is an unsatisfactory conclusion to the second,” said Sally.
He put his trilby back on his head at just the right rakish angle and gave it a gentle tap to secure it.
“You really don’t want that third visit,” he said, no longer smiling. “Good day to you both.”
He released the door, turned, and strolled away. The Cornwalls stared after him.
“I don’t think informatory is a proper word,” said Mister Cornwall.
“Shut up,” she hissed. “Just shut up, will you?”
* * *
Gwen left a message with Percival, the Bainbridge butler, that she would be returning later than usual. Then they closed up shop and she allowed Iris to haul her to the Tube.
“Do you know Shadwell?” she asked Iris as the train left the station. “I don’t think that I’ve ever set foot in it.”
“Yes, you think Mayfair is the East End, don’t you?” teased Iris. “I, on the other hand, know London inside and out. I used to go with my mum to the East End when she handed out pamphlets.”
“What sort of pamphlets?”
“Birth control. She had a doctor friend who had set up a clinic in Wapping, so she would walk around all the East End neighbourhoods, me in tow.”
“It must have been quite an education.”
“Oh, yes,” said Iris. “When people pointed out the incongruity of her promoting birth control while accompanied by her daughter, she would tell them that I was the single best argument for not having children that anyone could possibly make.”
“Ouch.”
“It was meant as a joke,” said Iris.
“Not a good one.”
“Maybe not, but that’s how she was. She once told me that I was conceived the day that women got the vote.”
“Really!”
Iris beckoned to Gwen to stoop so that she put her mouth by her ear.
“And that she was on top,” she whispered, and it was all Gwen could do not to lose her composure on the train.
They got off at Stepney Green. Iris glanced around once to get her bearings, then set off confidently down Mile End.
“The Chapel of Rest is at Grimble and Sons,” she said. “It’s a ten minute walk from here. Ten for me, anyway. Probably five for you. Could have got off at Whitechapel, but this is a more interesting route.”
“And no danger of meeting that Jack the Ripper fellow.”
“Hmm, he’d be fairly up in years by now if he’s still gadding about. I think we could outrun him.”
“Why doesn’t Shadwell have its own stop?”
“It used to.”
“When did it
close down?”
“In 1941. Which is also the answer to why.”
“Oh. What family did Miss La Salle have?”
“Mum and dad, two other sisters,” said Iris.
“And we are?”
“Friends. Acquaintances, rather. For now. People she met along the way, come to pay their respects, thought she was loads of fun, dressed fabulously.”
“So, not mentioning the Right Sort at all.”
“I have a feeling that might get us hung from the nearest yardarm,” said Iris. “Fortunately, nobody knows us there. We pay our respects to the family, then I will chat up some of her friends, get the lowdown.”
“Your accent changed in midsentence,” observed Gwen.
“Got to sound local, dun I?” said Iris. “Can you sound less posh?”
“I will endeavour to try,” said Gwen.
“And that would be sounding more posh,” said Iris. “Hunch your shoulders and slump a bit as well.”
“What on earth for?”
“So that you look less like someone used to holding a proper seat on a horse and more like someone who grew up in a cramped room with an outhouse in back.”
“Like this?” Gwen offered, bending at the waist and contorting her torso as she walked.
“Don’t overdo it, Quasimodo,” cautioned Iris. “Just be less like you.”
“Some days, I wish I was,” said Gwen.
“One more thing. The ring.”
“The ring?”
“The antique heirloom on your finger. I’m no appraiser, but it must be worth more than your average East Ender makes in a year. Pop it into your bag for now.”
Gwen looked down at her wedding ring. For an instant, she saw Ronnie sliding it onto her finger. Her fist clenched, then relaxed. She eased it off her finger and placed it securely inside her handbag.
She felt exposed.
Grimble and Sons was a two-storey brick building with a workshop and stables attached in back. Iris and Gwen glimpsed the tops of the old horse-drawn hearses over the gates to the driveway, but there was a pair of Daimler hearses parked in front. A sign over the large windows on the right proclaimed, “Grimble and Sons. All funerary services. Burials and cremations. Embalming available.”
There were two entrances. The one on the right led to the commercial side, where display coffins waited on trestles for future occupants, English elm, Canadian walnut, oak, and mahogany gleaming from French polishing. The other entrance, surmounted with a stone cross over the lintel, led to the Chapels of Rest. Three placards inside the front window indicated the current loved ones in temporary residence before transport to their burial grounds.
“Miss Matilda La Salle, Chapel Two,” read Iris. “Deep breath, Gwen. Look sad.”
“No difficulties there,” said Gwen.
They entered. Chapel Two was on their right. A young man, no more than sixteen, stood by the doorway. He was dressed in classic undertaker’s garb, a black suit that must have been passed down from previous and slightly larger Grimbles dating back to the prior century, surmounted by a top hat with a veil gathered in back. He maintained a solemn look that was as unsuitable to his youth as the suit was to his frame.
“Welcome, ladies,” he said, opening the door. “We are sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks,” said Iris.
She entered, with Gwen following, clutching her handbag in front with her elbows drawn into her ribs to bring her shoulders down.
The chapel was not ostentatiously decorated. It was an interior room, so no stained-glass depictions of saints or holy scenes graced the walls. A simple cross hung on the wall behind the coffin. The family had opted for English elm, and the smell of linseed oil and freshly sawn wood drifted towards Iris and Gwen as they approached.
There were other mourners scattered amongst the pews, some in prayer, some chatting away as if they were oblivious to their surroundings and the occasion. Iris marked them as targets of inquiry. Two young women were ahead of her, about the same age as Miss La Salle.
But they could still get older, Iris thought gloomily.
She waited in the short queue to the coffin, crossed herself, and pretended to pray for a moment. The two women were standing by the coffin, peering down at the corpse.
“They laid ’er out nice,” murmured one. “Din’t overdo the powder. She’d ’ate looking too done up.”
“Too true,” agreed the other. “Although I dunno that she’d ’ave picked that outfit, given the choice. She oughter ’ave gone with the green one. She wouldn’t be caught de—”
She stopped herself barely in time, her hand flying up to her mouth.
Gwen looked over Iris’s shoulder at the late Miss La Salle. Grimble and Sons had done good work. Her hair was styled beautifully, just like in the black and white photograph that was up on the easel next to the coffin. She was wearing the same bolero jacket and kiltie combination that she had on when she had come to their office.
A lifetime ago, thought Gwen.
“Ooo, that lipstick always looked good on ’er,” said the first woman.
“What’s that, the raspberry?” asked Iris.
“I think so,” said the second, leaning over to peer at it.
“I wanted to borrow that one,” said Iris. “She said not likely. Said it was ’er favourite, and ’ard to come by, what with the extra tax.”
“Oh, she ’ad her ways of gettin’ around that,” said the first woman. “Don’t think I know you. I’m Elsie.”
“Fanny,” said the second.
“Mary,” said Iris. “That’s Sophie be’ind me.”
Gwen gave a timid wave.
The women turned to the family who were sitting in a front pew, silent and stunned. They passed through them, issuing a series of muttered “So sorry’s” without engaging at length. Gwen was grateful for the cover the two women gave them. Iris managed to guide them to a back pew. Gwen sat across the aisle, watching as people drifted in and out.
“How did you know ’er?” asked Elsie.
“Run into ’er every now and again,” said Iris. “On the town and all. First time we met, a couple of French soldiers tried to chat us up. Thought we were together. We let ’em.”
“Oh, I think I ’eard about that,” said Fanny. “They thought she was French ’cause of the name.”
“And we din’t savvy a word,” said Iris. “We just kept nodding and they kept buying us drinks. Then we staggered off our separate ways. Most fun I ’ad in the war was with ’er that night. After that, we sorter looked out for each other when we’d run into each other dancing and the like. So I thought I’d pay me respects. ’Ow about you?”
“Oh, we’re Shadwell girls,” said Elsie. “Known ’er for donkey’s years.”
“Knew ’er,” amended Fanny.
“Right, knew ’er,” agreed Elsie, and the two lapsed into solemn silence.
Which lasted for a second.
“I wonder if Roger is goin’ to show,” said Elsie.
“’E’d ’ave a bloody nerve to put ’is face inside,” said Fanny darkly. “There’s other coffins what’s available.”
“Who’s Roger?” asked Iris, trying not to sound too eager. “Family?”
“Should ’ave been,” said Elsie. “If ’e’d a done as ’e oughter, which ’e din’t.”
“Ah,” said Iris, nodding wisely. “Never knew about ’im. After me time. They together long?”
“Long enough,” said Fanny. “Long enough for ’er to think they were going to be cut and carried. But ’e drops ’er. I blame ’im for what ’appened to ’er.”
“Likewise,” sniffed Elsie. “If she weren’t so set on showing ’im he made a mistake, she wouldn’t ’ave gallivanted off to that lonely ’earts place and get ’erself rippered.”
“Is that ’ow it ’appened?” asked Iris. “Why’d he scarper?”
“She thought ’e was using ’er,” said Fanny. “That ’e was just a low-down spiv aiming to get a leg up.”
&nbs
p; “And she was goin’ to ’elp ’im? What was ’er fiddle?”
“I don’t like to say,” said Elsie. “Not speaking ill, and ’er still in the room.”
Gwen listened, trying to sort out the slang when it came up. She didn’t want to stare at them while they were talking. She turned back to watch as a few elderly women paid their respects.
She never had the chance to bury Ronnie, she thought. He was in the Cassino War Cemetery in Italy. His parents had spoken about having him exhumed and brought back to be placed in the family vault, but had been dissuaded by his commanding officer in the Fusiliers. She had overheard two of the servants talking about it when she finally was released from the sanitorium. Something about there being not much left to bury after the shell blast hit him.
Hearing that almost sent her back to the sanitorium.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder. A man sat next to her, holding a handkerchief out. She looked at him in confusion, then instinctively felt her cheeks.
Tears again. Of course.
She wiped her face, then handed it back.
“Des,” said the man. “Tillie’s me cousin.”
“Sophie,” she said, hesitantly.
A dockworker, she guessed from his clothes. He wore a brown peacoat over a ratty grey sweater, a grey cap with a short black brim, and black rubber wellies. He had grey-green eyes that reminded her of the ocean on a cloudy day.
“Did you know her much?” asked Des.
“Not really,” she said. “Met her once.”
“Only once?” he said in surprise. “And you came?”
“I liked her,” said Gwen. “She was so lively. And then I heard about—it’s such a waste. I wanted to come. I can’t even say why.”
“You’re not from ’ere,” he observed.
“No.”
“Where’d you get them posh tones?”
“Kensington,” she said. “Upstairs maid growing up. They expect you to talk proper like them.”
“That right? Then ’ow did you meet Tillie?”
“I left, went to work in a department store,” Gwen improvised. “I work there with—”
She momentarily drew a blank on Iris’s alias.
“With Mary,” she said, summoning it. “Tillie came in. She knew Mary from somewhere. She wanted to buy a hat, something feathery. We got to talking, hit it off, met up after for a drink. Never did sell her that hat.”
The Right Sort of Man Page 11
