The Bloomsbury Affair

by Anita Davison

  ‘When I saw the blood. His face was pale and slack, not like sleep at all.’ Ed rocked back and forth on his chair, his eyes squeezed shut. ‘I knew then.’

  ‘What about Mr Thompson’s personal effects?’ Flora asked, partly to give Ed time to compose himself. ‘Did they provide any information about where he was going and why?’

  Maddox sighed and consulted his notebook. ‘All that was found on him was a first-class rail ticket, a Baedeker’s guide with a cross marked against the British Museum, but no forms of identification.’

  ‘He had no money on him?’ Bunny asked.

  ‘No, sir.’ Maddox raised an eyebrow. ‘That detail aroused our suspicions as well. He carried no cheques or money orders, when he would certainly have required funds for even a short stay in the city.’

  ‘What about the letter?’ Ed straightened in his seat. ‘He had one from the hotel. They confirmed his booking and sent him the train ticket.’

  ‘What letter? Maddox asked, frowning.

  ‘I didn’t actually see it, but he patted his pocket, like you do to reassure yourself it’s there.’

  ‘And the name of this hotel?’ Maddox scribbled something in his notebook.

  ‘Oh, bother, I can’t remember other than it was a flower that began with a “B” or maybe a “D”.’ His eyes dulled. ‘I didn’t pay much attention. Sorry.’

  ‘Have you considered this might have been a simple robbery which went wrong?’ Bunny suggested. ‘Mr Thompson might have tried to fight off the robber, who then killed him in the struggle. It would explain the lack of money and possessions.’

  ‘Possibly, sir,’ Maddox said. ‘It’s too early to say.’

  ‘What about Mr Thompson’s bag?’ Flora asked, encouraged by the fact Maddox had treated Bunny’s questions as valid. ‘Did you find it on the train?’

  ‘We did.’ Maddox consulted his notebook again but made no attempt to tell them more. ‘You appear uneasy, my lord.’ Maddox’s eyes narrowed and he leaned a forearm on his knee, his chin jutted. ‘Is there something you’ve neglected to tell me?’

  Ed hesitated, prompting Flora to interject. ‘Not everyone is accustomed to being cross-examined, Inspector. I know you reasonably well and yet I still find you intimidating. Goodness knows how poor Eddy must feel.’

  ‘It’s Ed,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘And there were other people on the train, so why am I the only one being interrogated?’

  ‘Quite simply, because you were discovered bent over the body and you ran from the Transport Police when they attempted to question you, sir.’

  ‘Question me?’ Ed snorted. ‘Lynch me more like. They were waving their batons about ready to brain me.’

  ‘One question no one has asked yet,’ Bunny began slowly. ‘Exactly how was Mr Thompson killed?’

  ‘We believe a weapon was used, but none was found at the scene.’ Maddox snapped the notebook shut and replaced it in his pocket. ‘The tracks within a mile of the station are being searched, but I’m not holding out much hope.’

  ‘Do you know what sort of weapon they are looking for?’ Flora asked. Prising information out of this man proved nearly as hard as questioning Ed. How could they discover anything with everyone being so closed-mouthed?

  ‘I cannot go into details at this stage,’ Maddox said, self-importantly. ‘The Transport Police handed the case over to my division as a favour. I’ve managed to gain you a few days’ respite, but they expect an arrest by the end of the week. In the meantime, sir,’ he pointed a finger at Ed, ‘you’ll not leave these premises under any circumstances. Do you understand?’

  ‘What? I have to remain inside this house?’ Ed’s eyes widened. ‘I can’t! I’ve things to do in town. I’ve got theatre tickets and restaurant bookings with friends. My parents are holding a house party in Gloucestershire soon. They’ll expect me to be there.’

  ‘In which case, you’ll have to make your excuses. I’ll keep you informed, Mr Harrington, Mrs Harrington.’ Maddox pushed both palms against his knees and rose, nodding briefly to each of them in turn before he headed for the door. ‘Incidentally,’ he turned back before reaching it, ‘do you happen to know any Latin? Do the words Deus Dat Incrementum, mean anything to you by any chance?’

  Flora shook her head, while Bunny said nothing. Ed fiddled with his shirt cuff, his foot jiggling rhythmically.

  ‘What about Iskra?’ Maddox again received no response. ‘Ah, well, it’s probably unimportant. There was a foreign news-sheet in Mr Thompson’s suitcase as well. Most likely it was used to line the case, which was fairly old. However, if his lordship remembers anything else, I trust he’ll contact me?’

  ‘Of course, he’ll be sure to let you know straight away. ‘Won’t you?’ Flora aimed a hard look at Ed, who nodded but remained silent.

  Bunny moved to the bell pull to summon Stokes, who appeared immediately, suggesting he had been hovering outside in the hall.

  ‘Make excuses to my mother?’ Ed muttered once Inspector Maddox had been shown out. ‘The man doesn’t know what he’s saying.’

  ‘At least you got your suitcase back,’ Flora said, although his answering shrug implied this was little consolation. ‘What do you suggest we do now, Bunny?’

  ‘My guess would be to try and find out more about this Leo Thompson. Specifically, who might have wanted him dead?’ He stroked his chin, his brows drawn together. ‘We need to start at the beginning.’

  ‘At Paddington Station?’ Flora asked. ‘There won’t be anything to find now, surely?’

  ‘I meant Cheltenham. How can we locate a killer by the end of the week without knowing anything about the victim? We’ll pay a visit to this shop Ed mentioned.’ He glanced at the clock, then back at Flora. ‘If we hurry, we’ll make the morning train.’

  ‘I’ll go and get my things.’ She rose, her gaze on Ed’s brooding expression as she left the room, unable to shake off the feeling there was something he had yet to reveal. But what?

  Chapter 5

  They caught the Great Western Railway train at Paddington with minutes to spare, Flora fretted a little that she had had no time to spend with Arthur before they left, but promised herself she would make it up to him when she returned. They arrived at Lansdown Station by late morning, where Bunny hailed one of the two hansom cabs that idled on the forecourt.

  ‘The town reminds me of London in many ways, with its classical Georgian town houses set around garden squares.’ Bunny said as the driver lowered the wooden flaps over their knees. ‘Which is probably why I feel at home in both places.’

  ‘I had forgotten how pretty it is here. I didn’t realize how much I had missed it,’ Flora said as they set off through streets lined with houses built in the Georgian style for which the town was famous. Wrought-iron railings enclosed neat, narrow gardens where daffodils, tulips and purple crocuses proliferated. Ancient trees formed a canopy punctured with shafts of spring sunlight onto the packed dirt road.

  ‘Would you prefer we lived here instead of London?’ Bunny rested his hand on the overhead strap as if he expected a more adventurous ride, but the horse maintained a steady, leisurely pace.

  ‘I don’t think so, but doesn’t everyone have feelings of nostalgia for the place they grew up in and which holds so many memories? Perhaps not for the way it really is, but how you saw it when young?’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll buy a house in Wellington Square, where we’ll spend our old age with a decrepit Stokes and a bent and grumpy Sally, hosting card parties for retired admirals and colonels.’ He nodded to where two old soldiers watched the world go by from a bench set against the Imperial Garden railings.

  ‘I wish you hadn’t put that picture into my head.’ She gave an involuntary shudder as the hansom entered the wide, tree-lined thoroughfare that was the Promenade. The dirt road contained few vehicles other than a few horse-drawn tradesmen’s carts loaded with various goods, from cut wood to vegetables, a solitary motor car and a milk van.

  ‘That didn’t t
ake long,’ Bunny said as their cab pulled into the side of the road. ‘There must be a race meeting today as I don’t see many people about.’

  ‘The Festival was last month,’ Flora said. ‘Most Cheltonians would regard this as a normal day. It’s not exactly Knightsbridge.’

  Thompson’s Haberdashery was a narrow shopfront squeezed between a bookshop and a hardware merchant, its façade of grey stonework above a bow window with a frame painted dark navy blue. A tapestry landscape of the famous Pump Rooms had been propped on a wooden easel in the window, an arrangement of embroidery threads forming an artistic rainbow at sill height below it.

  ‘I’m surprised Cavendish House hasn’t put them out of business,’ Bunny observed.

  The department store spanned several shop fronts; its plate glass frontage, frieze of leaded windows and ornamental wrought iron balconies as impressive as any seen in London.

  ‘I agree, the store does rather dominate.’ Flora took his hand to descend into the road. ‘Which makes me feel guilty now for not having patronized the smaller businesses in town when I lived here. Lady Trent had an account at Cavendish House, which made it easier to shop there instead. I imagine she still does.’

  While Bunny paid the driver, she crossed the pavement to the door which displayed no wreath, nor even a black ribbon to indicate mourning.

  ‘It appears news of Leo’s death has not yet reached the town,’ she whispered as Bunny gave the door a gentle push, their arrival announced by a jangling bell attached to the inside of the door.

  Flora paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the interior gloom as a plump woman in a ruched cream blouse bunched over an ample chest appeared from the rear, her shapeless black skirt falling straight to her ankles.

  ‘May I help you?’ A pair of disinterested eyes like brown pebbles scrutinized each of them in turn. A waist-high glass-fronted cabinet separated the space in half, behind which shelves lined the walls, each one tightly packed with bolts of fabric. A dark wooden cabinet ran along a wall to one side, filled with square wooden drawers, each with a window showing the buttons, pins and embroidery silks stored inside.

  ‘We were wondering…’ Flora halted, unsure how to approach the subject. ‘Might we speak to Mrs Thompson?’

  ‘I’m sorry, madam, but I’m afraid Mrs Thompson is deceased.’ The woman’s smile faded. ‘However, I’m sure I can help with whatever it is you’re wanting.’

  ‘I didn’t realize, I’m sorry to hear that.’ Flora exchanged a perplexed look with Bunny. Had they come all this way for nothing?

  ‘Last Christmas, it were. Such a sad time to lose anyone, don’t you agree? Not here though,’ she added, as if they might baulk at the idea of a death on the premises. ‘She passed away in the hospital on Sandford Road.’

  ‘Was it a long illness?’ Flora fondled a silk handkerchief on a display on the counter.

  ‘Oh, she weren’t ill. An accident she had. Terrible thing.’

  ‘An accident?’ Flora stepped closer to the display case, hoping the woman was prepared to reveal more.

  ‘It happened quite sudden, like.’ Her eyes narrowed as if she was trying to summon a memory. ‘She cut her hand on a pair of scissors.’ She indicated a cabinet to one side of the counter where pairs in various sizes were displayed. ‘Don’t sound very serious does it, but those we sell here are very sharp. I’ve a few scars myself from careless handling, I…’ Her puzzled expression dissolved, replaced by a gentle smile. ‘Wait a moment. I know you, don’t I? Why, it’s Miss Flora, isn’t it? Flora Maguire? You used to be governess up at the Abbey?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t—’ Flora hesitated, her mind a complete blank.

  ‘You wouldn’t remember me, and why should you, dear? I’m Mary Drake, from Clayton village. My eldest daughter used to be a housemaid at the Abbey before she married the head gardener.’ Her already ample chest puffed up a little more in pride at her daughter’s elevated status.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course, I didn’t recognize you at first,’ Flora lied. ‘I’m Mrs Harrington now, and we live in London.’

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Bunny look up from his perusal of an arrangement of gentlemen’s gloves. His mouth twitched as he moved on to a display of buttons.

  ‘Come to visit the family up at the Abbey, have you?’ she asked. ‘I thought they were away?’ She leaned an ample hip against the counter, her arms folded as if prepared for a long session.

  ‘No, we’re just here for the day.’ It appeared the local grapevine remained in excellent order. ‘I’m so sorry about Mrs Thompson,’ Flora added, surprised at how convincing she sounded. ‘You weren’t here when it happened?’

  ‘No, dear. I was in Brissol staying at my sister’s. Sylvia was alone in the shop all day.’

  Bunny’s hand stilled on a gentleman’s silk scarf, a bewildered look directed at Flora.

  Smiling, she mouthed the word, ‘Bristol’ At which understanding dawned on his face and he nodded, going back to his perusal of the scarf.

  ‘Mrs Thompson’s injury must have been severe to require her having to go to the hospital?’ Flora adopted a sympathetic tone as she examined a pair of the shop’s apparently lethal scissors, careful to avoid touching the blades.

  ‘It was. When I got back the next day, her hand was all bandaged up, but Sylvia seemed perfectly cheerful in herself. She even told me she had sold one of our needlework cases. A day or so after that, her son, Leo, came to the shop to tell me she couldn’t leave her bed and complained of being feverish. I went to Tivoli to see her and she looked right poorly, so Leo asked me to send for Dr Grace. She took one look at her and sent her to the hospital.’

  ‘Dr Grace Billings?’ Flora brightened at the name. She had crossed paths with Gloucestershire’s first female doctor before; a competent, no-nonsense woman.

  ‘That’s her, though from what I’ve heard, the doctors in town don’t give her an easy time of it. Them all being men.’

  Flora nodded, assuming Mrs Drake was not one of Dr Billings’ patients.

  ‘My husband don’t hold with lady doctors,’ she added, answering that question. ‘Says it’s not natural. Anyway, poor Sylvia passed away the next day. Dreadful it were. And she was so pleased about having sold the needlework case too.’ Her lower lip trembled as she pointed to the glass case beneath Flora’s hand. Several wooden cases rested on a length of cloth, each of a different polished wood with domed lids hand-painted with floral designs.

  ‘You can’t buy these in Cavendish House,’ Mrs Drake said proudly. ‘Sylvia commissioned them from a carpenter in Nailsworth. He only makes a few a year and we don’t sell many. What with them being a bit pricey.’

  ‘They’re beautiful. Might I see one?’

  ‘Of course, dear.’ Mrs Drake withdrew one with red peonies on the lid and laid it reverently on the counter. The compartmentalised tray inside displayed darning and embroidery needles, stitch rippers, three pairs of scissors in different sizes, a thimble and a tiny box of pearl-headed pins, bobbins and crochet hooks, all of which nestled in indentations in the dark blue velvet lining.

  ‘The one Sylvia sold had white flowers on the lid.’ Mrs Drake’s eyes gleamed as she sensed a lucrative sale. ‘Though I prefer these red ones myself.’

  ‘It’s lovely craftsmanship.’ Flora ran a hand over the smooth wood, her excuse to elicit information rapidly becoming a desire to possess the item for herself. ‘I think I’ll take it.’

  Flora shot a half-pleading, half-determined look at Bunny. He rolled his eyes, but smiled in silent approval and retired to a chair at the end of a counter, no doubt provided for elderly customers and bored husbands.

  With a pleased nod, Mrs Drake took down a roll of thick brown paper from a shelf above her head.

  ‘It must have been hard for Leo losing his mother like that,’ Flora said, watching as she unrolled the brown paper onto the counter with her blunt fingers.

  ‘Indeed yes, such a nice young man.’ She sighed. ‘Such lovely m
anners. But then he went to one of those posh schools in the country, so it shouldn’t be wondered at.’

  ‘Did you know Mrs Thompson’s husband as well?’

  ‘Oh, no, dear.’ Her lips puckered with disapproval, the idea apparently unthinkable. ‘He died when Leo was no more than a toddler.’ She lowered her voice to the conspiratorial tone of the habitual gossip. ‘I don’t think the marriage was happy, because she never mentioned him, not once.’ She ran the edge of a pair of scissors along the paper, dividing it in two with a light swishing sound.

  ‘This shop is charming.’ Flora gave the rows of neatly packed shelves a long, appraising glance. ‘I imagine Mrs Thompson found it a challenge to run on her own?’

  ‘What with Cavendish House almost next door, you mean?’ Mrs Drake nodded sagely. ‘Well, she didn’t depend on the shop to live, but it suited her to have something to do.’

  ‘Mrs Thompson had an alternative source of income?’ Bunny asked, bringing her attention sharply towards him.

  ‘Well… um,’ she hesitated, as if caught out in an indiscretion. ‘Well, it stands to reason doesn’t it, sir? I mean, Sylvia always had nice things and she could afford to send Leo away to school.’

  ‘I assume her son owns the shop now? Although I imagine it’s your own sterling efforts which have kept the place going since Mrs Thompson’s death?’ Bunny graced her with his most charming smile. ‘I cannot imagine a young man flourishing in such an environment.’

  ‘I do my best, sir.’ A deep flush appeared in response to his blatant flattery. ‘Funny you should say that, sir, because Leo is selling the shop and moving away. I suspect he only stayed in the town so as not to upset Sylvia. She doted on him, you see.’ Mrs Drake released a sad sigh. ‘He doesn’t have to worry though now, does he?’ She wrapped a length of string expertly round the case, tied it into a neat bow and snipped the ends with a flourish.

  ‘Where will he go?’ Flora grew mildly uneasy knowing the ‘nice young man’ was dead.

  ‘He has few friends round here and spends most of his time in London since his mother died. He’s there now in fact, making plans, like as not.’ She set down the scissors and pushed the parcel across the counter.