by T E Kinsey
‘Lady Hardcastle cracked the code,’ I said.
‘Did you, indeed?’ said Miss Challenger. ‘Did you really? We’d heard you were clever.’
‘I’d be lying if I said it was terribly complex,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But between us we did find out how it was done. It turned out to be a simple phonetic Caesar cipher and some wordplay, that’s all.’
Miss Challenger said nothing for a moment, merely blinking. ‘Well,’ she said after a pause, ‘it’s all well above my head. But what does it say now you’ve decoded it?’
‘We’re still working on it, but we have ascertained that it’s a record of his ongoing investigations. We’ve already spoken to his first target, Mr Oswald Crane. We met him this morning with Miss Caudle.’
‘The coffee fellow?’
‘The very same,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Not the most impressive chap we’ve ever encountered, eh, Armstrong?’
‘We’ve certainly met brighter and braver,’ I agreed. ‘But his lack of . . . well, his lack of anything very much apart from an unjustified sense of his own superiority doesn’t necessarily rule him out. More weaselly men than him have killed for less than that.’
‘Less than what?’ asked Miss Challenger.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Mr Brookfield had evidence that Mr Crane’s wife was having an affair.’
‘Oh my goodness,’ she said. ‘And after he made that speech about how it was the husband’s fault if the wife strayed.’
‘Well, quite,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘He’d be a laughing stock at the very least.’
‘Who was the other party?’ asked Miss Challenger.
‘We’ve not got to that part yet.’
‘Slow going, is it?’
‘Miss Caudle is working on it for us, and she does have other calls on her time. But we’ll get there, don’t worry,’ said Lady Hardcastle with a smile.
‘That’s good, then. Have you told Georgie?’
‘No, we came straight here in hopes of being able to tell you both.’
‘She’s at Lady Hooper’s Thursday afternoon bridge game. It’s a regular thing with her.’
‘I remember her saying. Well, she has our telephone number if she wishes to talk to either of us. Would you pass on the news in the meantime, please, such as it is?’
‘Of course,’ said Miss Challenger.
‘Has anyone visited Lizzie Worrel?’ I asked. ‘Do we know how she is?’
‘No one this week, but I think Georgie is planning to go to Horfield tomorrow morning.’
‘Is she?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘You know Miss Worrel well? Would she object to a visit from strangers if we tagged along?’
‘I’m sure she’d be delighted, what with you working on her case and all. She needs all the friends she can get at the moment, poor thing.’
‘Then I shall telephone Georgie this evening,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘and see what we can arrange. Is that all right with you, Armstrong?’
‘I always enjoy a visit to chokey, my lady,’ I said. ‘As long as I’m on the right side of the cell doors.’
‘But you’ve never been on the wrong side, surely,’ said Miss Challenger.
‘More than once,’ I said. ‘There was that time in Serbia, for instance. Belgrade.’
‘Oh my word, yes,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’d forgotten that one. Was that the time I paid those farmers to pull the bars from your window with their horses?’
‘No, that was Bulgaria. Belgrade was where you smuggled me a picklock in a banana and treated the guards to a bottle of rakija with a little something extra in it.’
‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘They looked so sweet there, all asleep.’
‘Well I never,’ said Miss Challenger.
‘It was all in a day’s work back then,’ I said.
‘And our day’s work tomorrow shall be a visit to the women’s wing of Horfield Prison. Have no fear, Miss Challenger, we shall free your friend and set the record straight.’
After yet another ‘quick stroll round the shops’, it was past teatime by the time we got home and the sun was readying itself for bed. Edna and Miss Jones, too, were readying themselves, if not for bed, then at least a return home to their families. I always enjoyed their company so I spent a while chatting to them.
Miss Jones had made all the preparations for our dinner and, as usual, had left me instructions for finishing it off.
‘I thought a nice bit of pheasant would do you both lovely,’ she said. ‘Fred Spratt had them in and said as how you likes them.’
So much so, I thought, that I ordered pheasant for lunch. I said nothing, of course, and Lady Hardcastle had eaten something muttony, so she’d be delighted.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I think that’s everything so why don’t you two nip off a bit early?’
‘I don’t mind if I do, actually. It’s our ma’s committee night so she likes to eat early.’
‘Our Dan can wait for his supper,’ said Edna, ‘but I’ll never say no to an early finish.’
‘We’ll see you tomorrow, then,’ I said. ‘Thank you both for another excellent day’s work.’
I left them to their hats and coats while I sorted out a tea tray for the lady of the house and carried it through.
‘What do we think of today’s encounter with the repellent Mr Crane?’ I said as I set down the tray in the drawing room.
‘I think I should have made arrangements to have him properly followed, that’s what I think. The whole point of getting the silly fellow’s dander up was to goad him into doing something stupid to try to cover whatever tracks he might think he’s left.’
‘He doesn’t strike me as a man of action,’ I said. ‘I imagine he’ll fret and dither for a bit first. Although, to be fair, we don’t know that he’s got any tracks to cover. Being a fatuous oaf isn’t yet a crime. It will be as soon as I get the vote, mind you, but it’s still perfectly acceptable for the moment.’
‘The world will no longer be a safe place for oafs and nincompoops when you get the vote.’
‘There’ll be nowhere for them to hide,’ I agreed. ‘Where does that particular wump make his nest?’
‘He has a grand house in Sneyd Park,’ she said. ‘North of the Downs. Looks out across the Avon Gorge.’
‘When did you find all that out?’
‘While you were hobnobbing with the girls in the kitchen, I telephoned Inspector Sunderland. He’s had dealings with Crane and happened to remember where he lived.’
‘That’s handy,’ I said. ‘And a tiny bit suspicious. What sort of dealings?’
‘Nothing helpful to us, I’m afraid. Crane had complained about a couple of roughs prowling about the area after dark. Apparently, there was fear and trembling in the houses of the great and the good, lest they be burgled while they slept. Or worse. But that’s to our advantage. The inspector said he’d have a discreet word with the beat copper up there and ask him to keep an eye out for suspicious comings and goings. He can disguise it as following up the earlier report. It’s not as good as actually tailing the fellow, but it’ll have to do.’
‘I think that’s the best we can do for now,’ I agreed. ‘I could shadow him unseen for days, but if he’s done nothing it would just be a waste of my time. It’s also a bit cold for that sort of work. Best leave it to the rozzers.’
‘I quite agree. We’ve set our cat among his pigeons, though, so we’ll just have to wait and see what happens.’
‘Did you telephone Lady Bickle?’
‘I did. She had just returned from her bridge game. She would be delighted to have us join her tomorrow morning and I said that we would meet her at the gaol at ten o’clock.’
‘You’ve been a busy lady,’ I said.
‘I have, but that’s not all. I also spoke to Dinah Caudle and she claims to be well on the way to deciphering the next story. She hopes to have something useful to tell us tomorrow.’
‘Not a bad day’s work, then,’ I said.
/> While we had been talking, Lady Hardcastle had been working on a sketch, which she now pinned to the crime board. It was an unkind caricature of Mr Crane as a red-faced football with his waistcoat straining at the seams and one button pinging off at some speed.
‘He has a splendid motive,’ she said. ‘But I do find it hard to imagine him actually doing something about it.’
Chapter Six
Horfield Prison was easy enough to find, just off the Gloucester Road. The main building was a square, red-brick edifice, plain and forbidding. With its clock tower, it looked somewhat like a modern church, but it was clearly not a comforting place of worship. There was a Rolls-Royce parked outside, from which Lady Bickle emerged as we drew up. She had a quick word with her chauffeur and then walked towards us.
‘I say,’ she said with genuine glee. ‘What a delightful little motor car. Good morning to you both.’
We struggled to free our eyes from our goggles and the rest of our faces from our mufflers.
‘Good morning to you, too, Georgie, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘You’ll have to excuse us for a few moments while we divest ourselves of our travelling togs.’
‘Take your time,’ she said. ‘I’m fully engaged admiring your charming conveyance. Is it difficult to drive?’
‘Not at all, my lady,’ I said. ‘Lever there on the steering wheel for the throttle, gear lever, too. Brake pedal on the floor . . . It all but drives itself.’
‘I simply must have one,’ she said. ‘The Rolls is fine for grand occasions, but Ben sometimes uses it to travel around the place for his work so it’s often not at home. I could have one of these and we’d never need to employ another Stanley.’
‘Stanley?’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Ben’s first chauffeur was called Stanley so it just sort of became the family name for a chauffeur. The current one’s an absolute poppet called Alfred. Or Fred, as he prefers to be known.’
By this time we had removed most of our driving clothes and were looking a little more presentable.
‘Have you ever visited a prisoner before?’ asked Lady Bickle as we walked towards the imposing front door.
‘Only Armstrong,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But never in this country and it was almost always my fault.’
‘Gracious,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘You two are exciting, aren’t you? I spent a few hours in a police cell in Lucerne once. It was all just a misunderstanding, though – I hadn’t known that the bicycle belonged to a policeman or I’d never have borrowed it. But I asked because it all proved a little too much for poor Beattie. She was quite unprepared for the realities of prison life, I think. She’s a gentle soul and I don’t think she’s seen very much of the darker side of life.’
‘Don’t worry about us, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We’ll be fine.’
After signing our souls away at the front desk we were led along endless corridors that smelled of disinfectant and echoed with the sound of our boots. The cell doors were all locked, but there were some shouted conversations between neighbours. Eventually, we arrived at a grey door indistinguishable from all the others apart from the number painted above it. Our wardress guide unlocked the door and ushered us in.
‘Bang on the door when you’re done,’ she said. ‘I’ll be outside.’
We mumbled our thanks and trooped into the dingy cell. A slight woman sat at the table in the corner of the room, dressed in a shapeless grey smock – her prison uniform. Her boots provided the only splash of brightness. She had been arrested in her white suffragette garb, and they had allowed her to keep her white patent leather boots. She began to stand as we entered.
‘Don’t get up, Lizzie, dear,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘All friends here.’
The woman sat gingerly down. Her long, mousy hair was pulled back from her face and plaited down her back. The face it revealed was grey and drawn. She looked as though she had barely slept since her arrest over a week ago.
She looked wearily and timidly at us. ‘Hello,’ she said.
‘This is Lady Hardcastle,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘And her maid, Armstrong. I mentioned them to you the other day.’
‘How do you do?’ said Lady Hardcastle.
I merely smiled and nodded. The poor woman looked overwhelmed enough as it was without me chiming in.
‘How are they treating you?’ asked Lady Bickle.
‘Like a murderer,’ said Miss Worrel.
‘Are you eating?’
‘I’ve not been hungry.’
‘This isn’t a suffragette thing, dear. You’ll get no sympathy for starving yourself.’
‘Has the Union abandoned me, then?’ asked Miss Worrel forlornly.
‘Heavens, no,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘Why do you think we’ve drafted in Lady Hardcastle? We need to clear your name and save you.’
‘I’ve heard nothing from Head Office.’
Lady Bickle looked discomfited for the first time since we’d met her.
‘Well . . . now . . . you see . . .’ she began. ‘We have heard from the top, and the feeling is that they would prefer to distance themselves from the case for the time being. It’s not that they doubt your innocence, it’s just . . . well . . .’
‘These are delicate times and sensitive matters,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I imagine they feel that your organization has a chance for the first time in a while to press for real change, and this trumped-up charge against you might be just the distraction your opponents need. If they can get people talking about your trial instead of votes for women, they’ll be delighted.’
‘So I’m just being left here to rot,’ said Miss Worrel.
‘Far from it,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘Lady Hardcastle and Armstrong have already made some progress.’
‘You have?’
‘We have,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I would hesitate to overbid on our present hand, but we believe we have a way in. We have Christian Brookfield’s coded notebook.’
Miss Worrel looked stricken at the mention of the journalist’s name.
‘And they’re beginning to understand it,’ said Lady Bickle enthusiastically. ‘Oswald Crane is already a suspect as a result.’
‘The coffee man?’ asked Miss Worrel. ‘Why on earth would he burn down an old shop on Thomas Street?’
‘Mr Brookfield was investigating his private life,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘There were allegations of marital infidelity.’
‘Him? But I’ve seen him. He looks like someone’s blown him up with a bicycle pump.’
We all laughed.
‘No, not him,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It’s his wife who’s been having the affair, or so Brookfield thought. After that speech he gave recently about how men should be ashamed of themselves if their wives strayed, or however it was he phrased it, he’d be a laughing stock if word were to get out that his wife were playing at away fixtures.’
‘Is it true?’
‘We don’t know yet,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘But do you think he might be the one who set the fire?’
‘We’ve seen men do worse over less,’ I said. It was the first time I’d spoken, and Miss Worrel seemed surprised to hear from me.
‘What do you think of all this business, Miss . . . Armstrong, was it?’ she said.
‘I have an open mind, miss,’ I said. ‘I’ll follow where our investigations lead us, but your friends are all convinced of your innocence and they make convincing arguments in your favour.’
‘Do you think I did it?’
‘Did you?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she said wearily.
‘Then that’s my starting point,’ I said. ‘Is there anything you can offer us to help us prove it? Where were you at the time, for instance?’
‘At home in Redland,’ she said. ‘I have rooms in a house on Woodfield Road.’
‘Could your landlord vouch for your whereabouts?’ I asked.
‘Landlady,’ she said. ‘And no. She’s a lovely old dear, but she’s deaf as a post. She
lets rooms to two of us “young ladies”, as she calls us, but she leaves us to our own devices.’
‘Your fellow lodger, then?’ I asked.
‘She’s away visiting her family in Bath.’
‘I hope it’s not too personal a question,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘but how do you support yourself?’
‘I’m an illustrator,’ she said. ‘Books and magazines, you know the sort of thing. Watercolours, mainly. I like children’s adventure books the best, but I’ve never been known to turn down a commission.’
‘How wonderful,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I dabble – so many people do, don’t they? – but I’m always interested to see what people with real talent can produce. You must promise to show me when this is all over.’
Miss Worrel smiled wanly.
There was a loud bang on the door and the wardress shouted, ‘Two more minutes in there. This i’n’t no social salon.’
‘We must be quick,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘Do you need anything, Lizzie?’
Miss Worrel shook her head.
‘And if you can think of anything – anything at all – that might help us, you must get word to us. Hold nothing back.’
Miss Worrel looked sadly up at her, but nodded her understanding.
‘And please eat something,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘We can get food to you, if not a cake with a file in it.’
The door opened, and the sour-faced wardress appeared.
‘Time’s up,’ she said. ‘If you . . . ladies will follow me, I’ll take you back to the front desk.’ She had looked pointedly at me as she said ‘ladies’, but I denied her the satisfaction of a reaction. ‘Worrel,’ she continued, ‘get your room squared away and be ready to go to the yard for exercise.’
We followed the stout bully back the way we had come and I daydreamed along the way about whether I could get away with tripping her on the stairs.
As we reached the front desk and prepared to sign ourselves out, the equally sour-faced prison warder responsible for our registration and admission reached into a pigeonhole on his desk and pulled out a piece of folded paper.
‘Is one of you’ – he looked down at the paper – ‘Lady Hardcastle?’