Our Lady of Pain (19 page)

Rose went to her rooms first to change the drab clothes she had chosen to wear while detecting. She rang for Hunter and was dressed in a tea gown.

“There you are!” exclaimed Lady Polly. “Brum tells me that you arrived home in Captain Cathcart’s car. We told you to have nothing to do with that man.”

“He happened to be in the East End at the same time,” said Rose, “and I was glad of an escort home.”

“Did you go on your own?”

“No, Mrs. Becket accompanied me.”

“That was not enough. Two of the footmen should have been with you. Now I want you to look your best tomorrow night. We are going to Mrs. Blenkinsop’s musical evening and Lord Cherm’s son, Roger, is going to be there. He has been travelling abroad, which is why he has not been seen at the Season before. He is eminently eligible.”

The telephone was in Matthew’s office. Rose stood on the first landing, watching the office door in the hall until she saw Matthew come out. He put on his hat and coat and left.

Rose darted down the stairs and telephoned Harry. “I’ll look through my invitations,” he said. “If I haven’t got one to the Mrs. Blenkinsop’s, I will manage to get invited somehow. Be careful. No more detecting.”

The next day, Rose was informed that her father had gone to his club and that her mother was lying down with a headache, although Hunter, the lady’s maid, confided that the “headache” was actually a cream treatment to whiten the skin and remove any tan and was supposed to take all day.

Rose decided to call on Daisy. Daisy greeted her with relief and delight. “I thought I was going to be stuck here all day. I told the captain I wanted to take up my duties as detective and he said I had to stay at home because of the baby. Men! What do you have in mind?”

“I want to see this Mr. Jones. I want to see what he looks like. I want to see if I can waylay him and speak to him.”

“Do you think he’s dangerous?”

“What can he do? With Harry trying to see him, he must know he is under suspicion and he won’t make any rash moves.”

“How did you get out?”

“Mama is enduring some treatment to bleach her tan and Father is at his club. We’ll take the cab I’ve got waiting outside.”

It took quite a long time to reach Notting Hill. Rain had begun to fall and the roads were a morass of mud and horse droppings. Carters, bus drivers, tram drivers, cab drivers and the few motor chauffeurs had no protection against the rain. They sat in the open, wearing oilskin hats and capes, with the rain pouring off them. Noise rose up around Rose and Daisy. A motor bus honked and banged, encouraged by shouts of “Whip behind, guv’nor!”

The buses were of all colours: red, blue, yellow, white, green, purple, orange and chocolate. Like the old stagecoaches, they all had names, such as The Favourite, The Atlas, the Royal Blue, The Royal Oak and The Wellington.

Hawkers still hawked their wares, but they seemed angry about their goods, whereas their grandfathers had been pleased. Instead of the old melodious chants, they bawled and yelled.

As they arrived at Notting Hill, the rain stopped and a watery sunlight gilded the muddy pavements. Rose paid the cabbie and they both stood, irresolute.

“We’ll sit in the tea room,” said Daisy. “Look, it’s quite empty. We can get a table by the window and observe the haberdashery.”

They ordered tea and biscuits and tried to watch the shop but the sun was making steam rise from the pavement and the window was steamed up. Rose kept rubbing a viewing circle with her handkerchief.

“Are you watching that shop?” asked the waitress.

Rose swung round. “No, I like to look at the people passing by.”

“Cos Mrs. Jones over there wondered what you was up to.”

With a bob of her head, the waitress indicated a woman sitting in the far corner.

“I shall go and put her mind at rest,” said Rose. “Come, Daisy.”

They approached the haberdasher’s wife. Rose judged her to be in her late twenties. She was wearing a long grey coat unseasonably trimmed with fur. A large grey hat was perched on top of her piled-up blonde hair. Her eyes were small and looked at them warily.

“I am Lady Rose Summer,” said Rose. She quickly noticed her name meant nothing to Mrs. Jones. “We are sorry we upset you. My companion, Miss Levine. May we join you? We do not know this area.”

“Please,” said Mrs. Jones, looking flustered and delighted at the same time. She would tell her friends that an aristocratic and beautiful young lady had joined her for tea.

Rose signalled to the waitress to bring their tea things over. She smiled charmingly at Mrs. Jones. “Have you lived in Notting Hill for long?”

“Only for a few years,” she said shyly. She spoke in a sort of strangled voice as if she was trying to kill any trace of a Cockney accent.

“The waitress said your husband is the haberdasher.”

“Yes. I thought you were watching the shop.”

Rose smiled. “Now why should that bother you?”

“It’s my husband. He’s ever such a suspicious man. It’s all come on him lately. He jumps at shadows.”

“Perhaps too much work?” suggested Rose.

“It shouldn’t be. He’s got plenty of staff.”

“I was supposed to meet my fiancé for lunch,” sighed Rose. “But he is always so busy. He is a private detective. My parents think that is a terribly common thing to be. He does have some fascinating cases, however. He is looking into the death of Dolores Duval.”

“I read about that in the newspapers,” said Mrs. Jones. “But they’ve got someone for it.”

“Yes, her brother, Jeffrey Biles. But he hanged himself. Dolores was originally Betty Biles from Whitechapel.”

Mrs. Jones suddenly bent her head. Rose realized with a jolt of shock that she was crying.

“My dear Mrs. Jones. I do not want to upset you.”

She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. Then she raised her head. “It’s my husband, Mr. Jones. He used to talk about her the whole time. Then when he found out she’d become no better than she should be, he got bitter about it.”

“He did not have any contact with Jeffrey Biles, did he?” asked Rose.

Mrs. Jones jumped to her feet, knocking her teacup over. She ran for the door.

The waitress had been watching them avidly and she now hurried over to clean the spilled tea from the table.

“Now what do we do?” asked Daisy.

“The steam has cleared from the windows. We’ll watch the shop again. I want to see what kind of man he is.”

They moved back to their original seat.

Rose looked at her fob watch. “It is nearly lunchtime. Look, that must be our Mr. Jones.”

A tall thin man had emerged from the shop. He was holding Mrs. Jones tightly by the arm. She was crying as he hustled her off down the street.

“As she had read about the case in the newspapers, it’s a wonder she did not recognize my name,” said Rose. “What did you make of him?”

“He’s a lot older than his wife,” said Daisy. “But he’s got a sort of weak face. I can’t imagine him murdering anyone.”

“I wonder how Harry is getting on,” said Rose, “because I can’t really think of what we can do here now.”

Armed with a letter from Kerridge, Harry went to Pentonville Prison to interview the guard who had been on duty at the estimated time of Jeffrey’s suicide.

He was told that the guard, Joseph Carver, had not come in for work. Harry saw the governor and got Carver’s address.

“Whitechapel,” he said to Becket when he came out of the prison. “All roads lead to Whitechapel. Our guard did not show up for work. His address is 5, Gerald Street.”

London had been for a long time the home of the persecuted and exiled. Whitechapel was largely the refuge of European Jews. They brought a bustling energy and life to the area, but there were still pockets where the English residents stayed in filth and dirt, ground down by lives of poverty. Gerald Street was a narrow cavern flanked on both sides by dingy tenements.

“The smell is awful,” said Harry. “Why don’t they wash?”

“In what?” asked Becket. “They haven’t any baths and the public baths cost money.”

Becket stayed to guard the car while Harry mounted the stairs of number 5. Names were scrawled in plaster at the side of the doors. Halfway up the stairs, he made out the name “Carver.”

He knocked on the door. Nearby a baby wailed, a caged linnet sang, and a man shouted something unintelligible. Harry knocked again. No reply.

He turned away. Then he turned back and tried the door handle. The door was not locked. He moved cautiously inside, calling, “Mr. Carver?”

A blanket was hanging over the window, leaving the room in darkness.

Harry edged towards the window and pulled the blanket down. He turned round and surveyed the room. It had very little furniture. There was an armchair in front of the fireplace. Harry realized with a shock that he could see the top of a man’s head.

Must have fallen asleep, he thought. He walked round the front of the armchair and stared down in horror. Carver—and surely it must be Carver—had had his throat slit. His clothes were matted with blood.

Harry went quickly to the window which overlooked the street and threw it up. He called down to Becket, “Get the police here as fast as you can.”

Harry was wearing gloves and so he decided to do a search of the room. There was little to search. He found a box of photographs—Carver with other prison guards on some sort of outing and a birth certificate.

The bed was in a recess. Harry slid his hands under the mattress and pulled out a wad of five-pound notes.

The police arrived first, followed later by Kerridge himself. “I would like to get out of here,” said Harry. “Can I make my statement at the Yard? I’ve already told the police I found a wad of fivers under the mattress.”

“Did you find a weapon? Looks like it’s been done by a razor.”

“No, but he may have thrown it away outside—down a drain in the street.”

“We’ll get to it.”

“I’ll go downstairs and wait in the motor.” Harry ran down the stairs and gulped down fresh air outside before climbing into the car beside Becket.

He told Becket what had happened. “I hope my Daisy is behaving herself,” said Becket, looking worried. “We thought it was all over and finished, but it’s beginning to look as if the murderer is still out there.”

“He may have bribed the guard. That would explain the money under the mattress.”

They waited a long time. Finally Kerridge emerged. “I think we’ll pull in this Mr. Jones for questioning. He may have nothing at all to do with us, but I’d like to see what he’s like.”

“I’ll meet you at Scotland Yard,” said Harry. “I would like to see him for myself.”

“Can’t do that,” said Kerridge. “I’ll get a rocket for letting an amateur into a police interrogation. I’ll telephone you and let you know how I get on. If you want to get away, you can call at the Yard tomorrow and we’ll take your statement there.”

Mrs. Blenkinsop, a society widow, had recently moved to a splendid house in Park Lane.

Lady Polly’s face was plastered with white make-up. The detanning cream had only removed the brown in patches. “Who would have thought a Cairo tanning would last so long?” she mourned. “That is the trouble with middle-aged skin. Now I want you to be particularly charming to young Roger. A great catch.”

Rose hoped Harry would be there. Then her heart sank as she remembered all the evenings in the past when they were officially engaged and he had failed to turn up. Her finger hurt. Her mother had ordered a jeweller to come round to the house and take the offending engagement ring off. It now resided in the depths of Rose’s jewel box.

She missed Daisy’s cheerful company. Rose was wearing a white chiffon gown with long lace sleeves and a lace panel at the front. On her head she wore a tiara of pearls. As she climbed down from the carriage, her taffeta and silk petticoats rustled. That rustle, thought Rose bitterly, was supposed to be seductive, but what was the point of appearing seductive if the very man one hoped to charm was not likely to attend?

When they were seated in the music room, Lady Pollynudged her daughter. “That’s Roger there,” she hissed, pointing with her fan.

Rose surveyed Roger. He was undoubtedly very handsome. He had thick wavy fair hair and a strong nose and firm mouth.

As if conscious of her gaze, he turned his head and gave her a half smile. Rose ducked her head and twiddled with the sticks of her ivory fan. “He smiled at you!” exclaimed Lady Polly. “You must flirt, girl.”

Fortunately for Rose, any further lecture was cut short by the start of the concert. A heavily built German gentleman sang lieder, followed by a soprano who sang “I Dreamt That I Dwelt in Marble Halls.” She received noisy and rapturous applause from an audience who did not have to dream about living in marble halls because they already did. The soprano was followed by a Pole who played Chopin with great verve and then came the interval.

Lady Polly stood up and called, “Elizabeth!” She pinched Rose’s elbow. “Roger’s mother. Be charming.”

“Polly, my dear.” Lady Cherm, who joined them, was unfashionably thin, to the point of emaciation. Her low-cut gown showed sharp bones.

“Where is your gorgeous boy?” cooed Lady Polly.

“Right there. Roger! Come and be introduced.”

Roger came to join them. His eyes were grey and fringed with fair lashes. After the introductions were effected, Roger held out his arm to Rose. “Shall we walk a little before the next half? I find rout chairs demned uncomfortable.”

Rose took his arm. “I have read a lot about you, Lady Rose,” said Roger. “You do seem to have a lot of adventures.”

“I hope they are over now,” said Rose, looking around for Harry and not finding him. “I have not seen you at the Season before.”

“I’ve been travelling. I adore seeing other countries.” He began to describe his travels and Rose found herself becoming very interested. “I’ll need to settle down one day,” said Roger, fixing her with his clear grey gaze, “but it would need to be with someone as adventurous as myself.”

Rose felt a pulse of attraction for him. Harry was such a difficult man. What would it be like to be free to travel the world with an adventurous husband?