‘She won’t die, Hazel,’ said Bridget to me. ‘Go and fetch some blankets, will you? Daisy, if you don’t stop struggling, I shall have to dose you with something to make you sleep. It’s what I do when Mr M. is ill, otherwise he will get up and go to work.’
I thought, not for the first time, how funny it was that Daisy and Uncle Felix ever disagreed. They were so very similar. Or was that the key to their arguments?
‘If you try, I shall spit it out!’ cried Daisy, struggling in a rage. ‘And then I shall run away and—’ She broke off to cough again. ‘Oh bother, whatever is the matter with me?’
‘You’re ill, Daisy,’ said Bridget calmly. ‘It happens, even to people like you.’
7
Daisy argued until she was purple in the face, and then, without even stopping to take a breath, she fell asleep.
She slept all the way through Bridget clattering about in the kitchen, making dinner, Uncle Felix coming in, throwing back his head and laughing at her, and Aunt Lucy walking quietly in after him to carefully adjust the pillows behind Daisy’s head.
At last, Daisy gave a dainty little snort and fluttered her eyes open. I braced myself for more furious orders.
‘Hazel,’ she said, licking her lips and blinking at me. ‘You can have my pudding at dinner. I don’t feel … quite … like it.’
And, just like that, she was asleep again.
‘Bridget!’ I shouted. ‘Aunt Lucy! Help!’
‘Good heavens, whatever’s the matter?’ asked Aunt Lucy, appearing in the doorway with Uncle Felix.
‘I think Daisy is dying,’ I said. ‘She just offered me her pudding!’
‘She’s not dying,’ said Aunt Lucy briskly, padding over to Daisy and feeling her forehead and jaw. ‘The fever’s caught up with her, that’s all. She’ll have a rough night of it, but she’s young and strong – she’ll be quite all right soon. I shall call the doctor just in case, but it’s nothing more than the flu.’
Daisy was tucked up in bed, muttering, ‘Watson … body … dead … murder … Martita!’ under her breath.
‘At least she’s having exciting dreams,’ said Aunt Lucy. ‘Felix, she really is your niece.’
Uncle Felix groaned. ‘It’s inevitable, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I kept on hoping she’d be ordinary.’
‘Daisy’s much better than ordinary!’ I said, rather stung.
‘You both are,’ said Aunt Lucy, winking at me. I beamed back at her quite without meaning to – and thought once again how perfect it would be to grow up into someone as interesting as Aunt Lucy. It would almost make up for not being a child any more.
‘Aunt Lucy, Uncle Felix – George and Alexander might visit tomorrow,’ I said, remembering. ‘I mean – they want to see Daisy, but—’
Aunt Lucy and Uncle Felix exchanged a flicker of a glance.
‘Yet another problem to solve,’ said Uncle Felix. ‘I can’t imagine your father would be happy with you seeing boys unchaperoned, would he?’
My face burned.
‘The real problem is,’ said Uncle Felix, screwing in his monocle thoughtfully, ‘which is more dangerous: men or murder? I can see the case for both, personally. What if we simply sent you both to a nunnery?’
Aunt Lucy cleared her throat.
‘I am being denied the nunnery,’ said Uncle Felix. ‘So. You may see the boys, I suppose, Hazel. But Bridget will supervise. If you leave the house with them, she must be with you, and you may not leave for anything longer than tea. Do you understand? And don’t forget, if you go out I can hold Daisy hostage.’
‘Yes, Uncle Felix,’ I said.
‘We are never having children,’ said Uncle Felix, turning to glare at Aunt Lucy.
And I meant to obey him, I really did. I thought George and Alexander would arrive, and we would simply go to tea and talk about the case. I never expected … what happened.
1
It is Tuesday evening and I am home again. I am also in a fearful lot of trouble. Daisy, sitting up in her bed in her white nightie with her cheeks a little less pink than they were yesterday, has just said, ‘I don’t know whether to hate you or be fearfully impressed with you, Hazel.’ I’m not sure I know, either.
Here is what happened.
My sleep was awful and broken on Monday night. I had been put in the guest bedroom, but all the same I could hear Daisy through the wall, having dreadful fever dreams that made her toss about like a cat in a sack and cry out furiously. She kept on saying my name, and every time she did I would wake in a panic in case she was in danger.
At last, I sat up, shivering and sweating both at once, and clicked on the electric light beside my bed. I got out my casebook and a pencil and wrote up the rest of Monday. When Bridget came to bring in breakfast, I was still awake, feeling slightly light-headed and unreal. I went in to see Daisy.
She was awake too, drinking beef tea and complaining.
‘Hazel, being ill is dreadful,’ she said. ‘I do not recommend it!’
Then she fell asleep again.
All that morning, I drifted about the house, unable to concentrate. I tried on clothes in the costume room, trying to look like someone else, but I kept on looking just like myself. I also kept on turning to my right, to see what Daisy thought, before I remembered that she was not there.
I was waiting and waiting for the doorbell to ring, my nerves stretched like a string, so that when it did I thought for a moment I might be imagining things.
‘Hazel!’ called Bridget. ‘It’s for you!’
I went rushing into the sitting room – both too fast and too slow, tripping over my own feet – and there were George and Alexander, unbearably real and, as always, much more person-sized than they were in my imagination.
George, looking perfectly turned out as always, in a very elegant new shirt and with his hair Brylcreemed, stuck out a hand and smiled at me. And then I was turning to Alexander, not sure if it was proper to hug or simply shake hands.
But of course Alexander was still Alexander, and he simply swept me up in a large, cheerful hug. I told myself sternly that I ought not to enjoy it, for it meant less than nothing. Alexander likes me – of course he does. That is the problem. He likes me in every way but the way I like him.
Alexander stepped back and looked around in confusion.
‘Where’s Daisy?’ he asked.
‘She’s ill,’ said George at once.
Alexander and I both stared at him.
‘It’s not difficult to work out!’ George protested, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Bridget looks rushed. I can smell beef tea boiling. Hazel looks tired, she doesn’t have her handkerchief in her pocket and Daisy isn’t here. Daisy can’t be dead, otherwise Hazel would be crying with her handkerchief in her hand. But, if Daisy were simply ill, it would explain the beef tea and Bridget – and Hazel would have sat up worrying about Daisy all night, and given Daisy her handkerchief when hers were all used up. See? Elementary.’
‘Show-off,’ said Alexander, grinning good-naturedly.
‘Who am I showing off to?’ asked George. ‘Hazel’s cleverer than I am.’
I shot him a glance.
‘Is Daisy all right?’ Alexander asked, worried. ‘I mean – will she be?’
‘She’ll be perfectly all right!’ I said. ‘She only has the flu. It’s been going round the Rue.’
At the Rue’s name, George and Alexander’s eyes lit up.
‘Tell us all about it!’ said Alexander. ‘Come on, do! We’ve read the papers, but they don’t tell us much. It really isn’t fair that you girls get all the best mysteries.’
‘Well, we are the best Detective Society,’ I said, and blushed. That was the sort of thing Daisy would usually say – but, of course, she was not here to say it.
‘Hazel!’ called Daisy’s voice. ‘Hazel! I can hear George and Alexander! Bring them in at once!’
I paused.
‘Don’t bother about decency, Hazel!’ cried Daisy impatiently. ‘I’ve just woke
n up and I’m fearfully bored. I think I’m getting better. Boys! Come here at once!’
I sighed. We had been granted an audience with Daisy.
‘Fifteen minutes!’ Bridget said warningly as she walked by carrying a tray piled high with broken bits of crockery. ‘And don’t go tiring her out, otherwise you’ll be for it. Stay on the other side of the room and don’t let her sneeze on you. Oh, and Hazel – stop giving her your hankies.’
Daisy was sitting up in bed, a new nightie on and her hair brushed around her shoulders in a golden cloud. I saw Alexander look at her and then look anywhere else but her, and it made my heart hurt.
‘George!’ said Daisy regally. ‘Alexander! Thank you, Hazel. Now, I imagine you want to hear about the Rue. Well! I suppose we can tell you some things. Not everything, of course.’
We all protested.
‘SOME things,’ Daisy went on. ‘Hazel, I think you ought to explain. I could, of course, but I don’t want to.’
I stared at her, and she turned ever so slightly pink.
‘Also, I may not be entirely mentally acute,’ she added. ‘Hazel, TELL!’
So I told. I put some things in that I knew Daisy didn’t want me to – but it was my story and I was telling it. I felt once again how much power there was in that.
‘Golly!’ said George, when I had finished.
‘Spiffing!’ said Alexander.
‘It isn’t bad, is it?’ said Daisy.
‘So, what do we do now?’ asked Alexander, staring from George to Daisy to me. ‘How can we help?’
‘You can’t—’ Daisy began. Then she took a deep, composing breath. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘there is one thing. We were going to do it yesterday, but then I was struck down by this infuriating sickness.’
‘You want to go to Annie’s boarding house,’ said George at once.
Daisy eyed him rather crossly. ‘Let me finish!’ she said. ‘But yes, as it happens. We have investigated the Rue, and we know our suspects. The only part of this case that is quite unknown to us at the moment is the Soho accommodation from the newspaper reports. It also seems important to me that someone looks at the scene of the second crime – Westminster Bridge. I am glad that you agree.’
‘But we can’t get there!’ I protested. ‘We have to have Bridget with us, even if we go out for tea!’
‘Hazel,’ said Daisy, ‘really. We have been in London for almost a month. I should think you know how to get lost in it by now.’
2
Alexander, George and I stepped out of the building, into the late spring London air. The day was cloudy, pale and slightly chilly, and we were buffeted by the people hurrying by. Everyone seems to move so very fast in London – as fast as in Hong Kong, but greyer and crosser. Bridget was just behind us, and I could feel her sharp attention on us.
We walked demurely down the road, turning left and right until we came out onto the wide cluttered expanse of Theobalds Road. There was a Lyons teashop in front of us, looking most inviting with trays of brightly coloured cakes in the window. At that moment, I dearly wanted to go in, but my mission was clear. A red London omnibus trundled by in front of us. I swallowed, and glanced carefully at George and Alexander beside me. George cleared his throat, and that was the signal.
We had all agreed what was about to happen. I had seen it in my head ten times over. But all the same my heart raced and my hands tingled and my throat felt thick with nerves.
Alexander’s hat fell off his head.
‘Oh heck!’ he said loudly and bent to pick it up, blocking Bridget’s path. She knelt too, to help him, and that was my chance.
‘Go, Hazel, go!’ hissed George, and he gave me a sharp but not unfriendly shove. I stumbled and tripped over my own feet, and went running after the bus. If I stepped on, I would be disobeying Bridget and Uncle Felix. I would be doing something more obviously bad than I ever had before. I would be running away, just as surely as my friend Lavinia had once run away from Deepdean.
I took a deep breath and jumped up onto the bus.
The back was open, like all London buses, and the conductor took a penny from my (only slightly shaking) hand and gave me a half fare. I tucked it into my glove and went winding down the rocking, petrol-smelling bus, passengers clinging to its rails and jouncing on its seats.
Behind me I heard a shout. I turned and saw that George and Alexander had also made their break – they were fleeing in opposite directions down the street. Bridget had begun to dash after Alexander, but then she turned and saw my bus chugging away from her. She picked up her skirts and pounded after me.
We had known this would happen, of course, and that was why I was on the bus. Bridget could outrun me if I was on foot, but she could not catch up with a bus so easily. Keeping low down in my seat, I held my breath, took off my beret and held it in my hands, squeezing the soft felt between my fingers.
The bus picked up speed and Bridget began to fall behind. I rang the bell, its noise silvering out around me, and then I stood up, clapping my hat back on my head. We had selected the beret very carefully from the costume room – it could be turned inside out to reveal a quite different colour. If Bridget was looking for a green head, she would not be expecting a blue one.
I leaped down from the bus, into a press of people. Everyone was hurrying – shopping bags and attaché cases buffeted me – and I almost knocked into a suited man who glared at me furiously. I wove through the crowd, keeping low, and leaped on the next bus I saw. Then I got off again almost immediately and ducked into a telephone box at the side of the road.
Off came my coat – my hands trembling and my arms feeling twice as large as they ordinarily did – and I turned it inside out, to reveal its purple lining. It, too, had been pilfered from the costume room. I took out a pair of lensless glasses from my pocket and jammed them on my nose, and then stepped out of the telephone box and jumped up onto a number 17 bus going the opposite way. At every moment I was expecting Bridget’s hand to fall onto my shoulder – but it did not.
The bus wove through the streets, and I kept low down in my seat once again and tried not to look out of the window. At last the bus pulled up in a squeal of tyres beside Tottenham Court Road station. I stepped out once again into the brisk spring afternoon air, the wind blowing back my hat, and car horns and shouts and bicycle bells dinning in my ears.
I was trying to recall all the things Daisy had told me about throwing off a pursuit. I could hear her voice in my head, cuttingly pointing out that I was moving too slowly, that I ought to take off my hat to renew my disguise, that the man there – yes, there – might be suspicious, that I was being far too Hazel and not enough Daisy – but then I took one more breath and felt, from the tips of my ears to my heels in their rather new, rather pinching shoes, that I was quite alone, in the rush of London, and I had thrown off my pursuit as well as even Daisy could.
It was odd, walking with glasses, like having shadows at the corners of my eyes. They kept on sliding down my nose and almost off my face. Somehow they made me see the world quite new, the colours brighter – or perhaps that was only my nerves. All my detective senses were working, watching the patterns of the crowd, the policeman next to Tottenham Court Road station, the man selling nuts from a stall, the young women who pushed past me, arm in arm, chattering and laughing.
I turned down Charing Cross Road, towards the Rue Theatre, and ducked into the first teashop I saw. I bought a penny bun and ate it in the street. It was warm in my hand and sweet on my tongue, and I felt extremely daring. I stopped outside Foyles and stared at the display of books in the window, trying to keep my breathing calm and my heartbeat slow and look at everything while not seeming to look at anything at all.
I caught sight of George, a borrowed red scarf wrapped round his neck, browsing rather casually outside our appointed meeting place, one of the second-hand bookshops dotted down the street. They all have small, faded, green-and-blue awnings outside, with rows of dusty green and blue and red leather
books stacked beneath, and collectors go up and down the road looking for paper treasures.
George was reading so intently, his dark eyebrows furrowed with concentration and his shoulders hunched, that he did not notice me. I crept up behind him, holding my breath and thinking that I was about to get one over on him. I stepped forward – and without looking up from his book, George said, ‘I see you, Hazel.’
I couldn’t help it. I let out a small shriek, and then clapped a hand over my mouth guiltily.
‘I saw you there half a minute ago,’ said George. ‘That hat suits you.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, still feeling rather cross with myself.
And then suddenly I was seized from behind. A body thudded into mine and hands caught my arms and squeezed them against my sides. I screamed and dug my elbow firmly backwards into my assailant’s chest.
3
‘Oof!’ said a voice above my ear. ‘Ow, Hazel! It’s me!’
‘Alexander!’ I cried, furious at myself for being caught, and for being so distracted now by the waft of clean boy smell coming off him, and his hands on my arms, and the slight warmth of him I could feel even through my coat. I struggled away, red-faced and upset, and turned on Alexander. He backed away from me, blushing in horror. He was wearing a swapped hat and a blue scarf that matched his eyes.
‘I thought you were a murderer!’ I cried. ‘Or Bridget!’
‘I’m – I’m so sorry, Hazel,’ said Alexander and he rubbed his hand through his hair awkwardly. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you! I thought it would be funny.’
‘Alex!’ said George, putting a calming arm round me. ‘You idiot—’
‘Hey!’ called a voice. ‘Hey, you! Boys! What are you doing? Unhand that girl!’
We all turned to see an old man in a threadbare jacket, his whiskers slightly untrimmed, coming down the street towards us. He was shaking his fists and he looked quite furious.
‘Unhand her, I say!’ he cried. ‘Dirty ruffians!’
Death in the Spotlight Page 16
