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Authors: Carola Dunn

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She had lots of questions, and Daisy never managed to steer the conversation back to Patrick Jessup. At least she now knew his name!

HOME SWEET HOME

Here’s little Sir John in a nut-brown bowl,
And brandy in a glass;
And little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl
Proved the stronger man at last.
And the huntsman he can’t hunt the fox,
Nor so loudly blow his horn,
And the tinker he can’t mend kettles or pots
Without a little of Barleycorn.

As a child, Patrick had found the long lift ride at Hampstead tube station spooky, though he’d have died rather than admit it to his brother or his friends. Once he was old enough, he preferred to climb the three hundred steps to the surface from the deepest platforms in the whole Underground network. Though the staircase was pretty grim and gloomy, at least he wasn’t shut up in a cage. He used to say it was to keep himself fit for cricket.

Arriving in London on a rainy afternoon with Mickie Callaghan in tow, he assumed they would take a taxi from the boat train to Constable Circle.

“Nix,” said Callaghan. “Cabs can be traced. We take the subway, or whatever you ride in in this burg.”

The implications did not make Patrick happy. He was already unhappy about taking the Irish American home to his family. They had crossed the Atlantic together, Callaghan hiding in their cabin most of the way in a most unsettling manner. Patrick still wasn’t sure what the man was after, but it seemed impossible to get rid of him.

His father had set up this whole affair. Patrick had carried out his part successfully. His father would have to deal with Callaghan.

They reached Hampstead station just early enough not to
have to stand in line for the lift, but Callaghan took one look at the lift attendant and said, “We take the stairs.”

“He takes thousands of people up and down every day. He won’t remember you.”

“We take the stairs.”

Maliciously, Patrick failed to inform him that they were not much less than two hundred feet below ground level. Callaghan, silent in his rubber-soled shoes, set off at a fast pace that would have taken him quickly to the top of a four-story building. Patrick didn’t attempt to keep up. He was not at all surprised when he caught up with Callaghan plodding upward, looking disgruntled. Knowing from experience that taking the climb too slowly was as exhausting as attempting to take it too fast, Patrick kept going, giving the disgruntled American a wave as he passed.

“See you at the top.”

Callaghan scowled.

The last step behind him, Patrick was pleased to find that he was less out of shape than he had feared. He was breathing hard but by no means winded. Leaning against a poster advertising
The Lost World
, starring Bessie Love, he waited for Callaghan, who appeared at last, after a considerable interval. He came up the final flight breathing easily. Patrick was sure he had stopped to rest on the last landing. If he had learnt anything about Mickie Callaghan, it was that he’d go to considerable trouble to avoid being caught at a disadvantage.

As always, it was a relief to exit into the open air. The rain had stopped, but dark clouds hung overhead, bringing an early twilight. Patrick turned left and left again, into Flask Walk. Callaghan, silent and morose, kept pace with him along the narrow paved lane, past the Flask public house. It was just opening.

“Let’s stop in for a pint,” Patrick suggested, trying to postpone the moment when he’d have to introduce his companion to the family.

“Nix. I bet you’re known in there. They’d remember me.”

The two-story workmen’s cottages opening directly onto
the pavement gave way to larger houses and big trees as they crossed into Well Walk. At the old Chalybeate Well monument, they left the street and took a passage uphill between two large redbrick houses. They came out on the south side of Constable Circle.

“We’ll cut across the garden,” said Patrick, turning his head to speak to Callaghan, who had fallen a step or two behind.

“Nice place. Which is your house?”

“To the left of the one at the top.” He pointed. Someone was coming down the steps. “I think that’s my brother.” In the dusk, he couldn’t be sure.

The man crossed the street and started down the path. It
was
Aidan. Good old Aidan! Patrick had never in his life been so glad to see the old sobersides. He waved. Aidan waved back and they both walked faster. Callaghan fell behind Patrick.

A man stepped out of the bushes and accosted Aidan. He spoke too softly for Patrick to hear at that distance, but his gestures were forceful. Aidan brushed him off and kept going. The man persisted, striding along at Aidan’s side, gesticulating. He seemed to be angry.

They all converged on the fountain.

The stranger’s rant cut off abruptly, as if he had suddenly noticed he and Aidan were not alone. He stared towards Patrick.

“You!” he exclaimed, his tone venomous. Thrusting his hand inside his coat, he took a couple of quick paces forward. His hand reappeared gripping a pistol.

SIX


Madam!” Elsie
burst into the dining room in a manner most unlike her usual parlour-maidenly propriety. “Oh madam!”

“What’s the matter?” Daisy sloshed tea over the
Chronicle
as she jumped up in alarm. “Not the twins—?”

“Oh no, ’m, not the babies.”

Flooded with relief, Daisy took a closer look at the maid. “You’re white as a sheet, Elsie. Here, sit down. What’s wrong?”

“It’s the little dog, ’m. I let her out same as usual to go over to the garden—”

“Don’t tell me she’s been run over!”

“Oh no, madam. Nothing drives that fast round the Circle. But usually she’s that good about coming right away when I call her, and this morning I called and called and she didn’t come—”

“She’s run away?” Daisy asked incredulously.

“Oh no, ’m. I went up the area steps to the pavement to look if I could see her, and there she was in the garden, over by them bushes, the evergreen ones? And she was barking and whining fit to bust, and she just wouldn’t come away, so I went to fetch her. And I grabbed her collar and she kept on
whining and I was scolding her like anything when I saw it.” The maid fell silent, her eyes and mouth round with remembered shock.

Daisy mustered all her patience. “What did you see, Elsie?”

“A glove, madam. Someone dropped it, I thought, and I went to pick it up—a good leather glove, someone’d be looking for it—but it had a hand in it, and I thought, ‘Oh it’s one of them nasty drunkards. What cheek sleeping in our garden!’ And I moved the branches, like, to give him a piece of my mind, but he wasn’t drunk, madam. He’s dead! As a doornail.”

“Good gracious! Oh dear, I suppose he must have died of exposure. It was cold and wet last night.”

“I must say, ’m, he didn’t look like a common drunk.” Elsie was regaining her sangfroid. “Good-quality clothes he has on. He looked sort of familiar, but I can’t quite place … Has the master gone already?”

“I don’t think so. He went up to say good-bye to the twins.” Daisy had got up early to have breakfast with Alec, who had to leave for Scotland Yard earlier than usual to finish writing a report before a meeting with Superintendent Crane and the AC (Crime). “You’re right, Elsie. He’ll have to be told.”

What, after all, was the point of being married to a policeman if one had to cope oneself with dead bodies carelessly strewn around? It was no use, however, expecting him to be pleased.

Daisy went upstairs. She met Alec on the landing, as he came down.

“I’m off, love. I shouldn’t be too late tonight.”

“Darling, I’m afraid you’re going to be late this morning. There’s a tramp lying under the bushes in the garden, and it looks as if he’s dead.”

“Daisy, if you
must
fall over bodies wherever you go, could you not at least wait until I’ve left for work?”

“It wasn’t me! Elsie found him.”

“Not me, ’m!” Elsie, who had come up the stairs behind Daisy, was equally anxious to disclaim responsibility. “It was the little dog, sir.”

“Where is she?” Daisy asked. “Where’s Nana?”

“Oh madam, I must’ve forgot her, what with the shock and all. She’ll be out there guarding him still, I ‘spect. And I don’t think he’s a tramp, sir, not by his clothes.”

Alec groaned. “Couldn’t we just pretend you found him when I was already gone?” When Elsie looked almost as shocked as she had in reporting the body, he went on quickly: “No, of course we couldn’t. Daisy, you’d better ring up the local station, but I suppose I’ll have to take a look.”

“Elsie, go with Mr. Fletcher and fetch Nana in.”

“Oh madam, not me. I’m not going anywhere near that body again, not for nobody, not if you was to tell me to pack my box this instant.”

Daisy looked at Alec. Alec looked at Daisy.

He sighed. “Right-oh, you’ll have to come and get the dog. I can’t cope with her as well as a corpse. Telephone the locals first. Elsie, I suppose you’re quite sure he really is dead?”

“I saw bodies in the War, sir, when they bombed the East End. He looked to me about as dead as a jellied eel.” She paused to consider. “No, not a jellied eel, not really. Dead as—”

“Never mind,” Alec said hastily, “I’ll take your word for it.” He looked at his wristwatch. “I’m not going to make it to that meeting. Daisy, after you’ve spoken to the locals, you’re going to have to ring up the Yard and tell the Super what’s going on.”

“Darling, he’s bound to blame me!”

“Can’t be helped.” His grin was infuriating. Daisy wondered whether on the whole it might be preferable to have a husband who was
not
a policeman if one had to cope with a body. “If he carries on at you, say you have to secure the dog. In the meantime, no doubt she’ll show me where to look.”

With that, he bounded down the stairs and disappeared through the front door.

Before she followed, Daisy fixed the parlour maid with a stern eye. “This is police business now, Elsie. You mustn’t talk about it to anyone. Not a soul, not even your sister, or you’ll be in serious trouble. Did you talk to anyone outside?”

“No one was about, ’m. Leastways, I didn’t see anyone, but then after I saw it, I wasn’t looking. There could’ve been someone I didn’t notice.”

“When you talk to the police, just tell them exactly what you saw, not what or who might have been there.”

Her eyes went round again. “Ooh, madam, will I have to talk to the police?”

“Very likely not, but if so, it’s nothing to be afraid of. You speak to Mr. Fletcher every day, don’t you?”

“Yes’m, but he’s the master. It’s not the same.”

Daisy wished she had never embarked upon the subject. “Well, I dare say they won’t want to see you, with the master to explain what happened. I must go and telephone.”

The desk sergeant at Hampstead police station sounded bored. She gave him her name.

“Mrs. Fletcher, what can I—Mrs. Fletcher?” The voice perked up. “Mrs. DCI Fletcher, by any chance?”

“Yes, actually.”

“What can we do for you, ma’am?”

“I’m ringing for my husband. Could I speak to a detective, please?”

“Of course, Mrs. Fletcher. DS Mackinnon is on duty.”

“Oh good, I know him.” And she liked him. Alec approved of him, too. “At least I think I do. Was he in St. John’s Wood?”

“Moved here a few months ago, ma’am. Half a jiffy. I’ll get him right on the line.”

There were advantages to being notorious, Daisy thought with a sigh.

A moment later: “Mrs. Fletcher?” The rolling Scottish r’s were unmistakable, as was—she hoped—the pleasure in his voice as he continued. “Good morning, ma’am. What can I do for you?”

“Good morning, Mr. Mackinnon. I’m afraid it’s a body.”

“You’ve found a body?” he asked cautiously.

Silently, Daisy blessed him for not saying “
another
body.”

“Not exactly. That is, my maid found it. Or rather, the dog.”

“Your dog found a body. Where, exactly?”

“In the garden—it’s a sort of park, actually, or circular square, if you see what I mean.” Daisy discovered she was more upset than she had supposed. “I’m explaining it very badly.”

“Not at all. Chust take your time, Mrs. Fletcher. It isna the private garden of your own house, then?”

“No, not exactly. It’s communal, for all the residents of Constable Circle. In Hampstead. Did you know we moved to Hampstead? Constable Circle, number six.”

“Got it. You’ve seen this body, ma’am?”

“No, but my husband has gone to take a look. He told me to telephone.”

“DCI Fletcher is on the scene? Excellent,” Mackinnon said soothingly. “Nae doot it’ll be best if I wait for his confirmation, sin ye’ve only the maid’s word for it. What do you think?”

“No … Yes … Yes, perhaps. Right-oh, I’ll tell him. You’ll be standing by?”

“Of course, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll be ready.”

“Thank you.” Reluctantly, Daisy depressed the hook and asked the operator for Whitehall 1212. She did not want to speak to Superintendent Crane. She wasn’t responsible for the body in the bushes; she hadn’t even been the one to find the body in the bushes; but she knew perfectly well that, because of certain unfortunate incidents in her past, Crane would find some way to persuade himself it was all her fault.

BOOK: Black Ship
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