by T E Kinsey
‘We certainly hope so,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Please sit down.’
The young woman sat in the chair recently vacated by her employer. She took off her spectacles.
‘They’s not real,’ she said as she put them into the pocket of her long tweed skirt. ‘Just a little prop. Now what can I do for you?’
‘It’s about one of your clients,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘So we understand if you’d rather not say – I imagine you must value discretion. But he was the one who named you, so you’d not be giving away anything he hasn’t already said himself.’
‘Who is it?’ said Molly.
‘You might know him as Jimmy.’
‘The Dishonourable Jimmy?’ she said. ‘I knows him. He’s one of my naughty boys.’
‘Splendid,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘On the night of the fire – the twenty-fifth of last month – he says he left his club at about ten o’clock to come and see you. I don’t suppose you can remember seeing him?’
The girl fished in the other pocket of her skirt and produced a small, black diary. She began to riffle through the pages. ‘The twenty-fifth?’ she said. ‘That were a Tuesday, weren’t it?’
‘It was.’
‘Yes, here we are. The Dishonourable Jimmy, a quarter past ten. He was here.’
‘I don’t suppose you have a record of when he left?’
‘Let’s see. Well, I had . . . Actually, better not say who . . . I had another naughty boy to see at eleven so he was definitely gone by then.’
‘Before eleven o’clock?’ I said. ‘That gives him plenty of time to get to Thomas Street, even if he were walking.’
‘He wouldn’t have wanted to sit down for a bit, so he might have preferred to walk,’ said Molly with a twinkle.
‘That really is most helpful,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Thank you very much indeed.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Molly brightly. ‘Always happy to help the suffragettes. Is that all you wanted?’
‘It is, thank you, yes,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘I’d better get back to the nursery,’ said Molly.
Moments later Madam Jemima returned.
‘Do you have what you need?’ she said.
‘We do,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘You’ve been much more helpful than we had any right to expect. Thank you very much indeed. And thank Molly again for us, would you?’
‘Of course. Now, I don’t wish to appear inhospitable, but the after-work rush starts soon and our clients are a skittish lot.’
‘Of course. They don’t want the likes of us milling about the place.’
‘Well . . .’ said the brothel-keeper slowly, looking at us both again. Thankfully, she left the thought unfinished.
Chapter Twelve
Lady Bickle telephoned early the next day – Thursday – to confirm the arrangements for the visit to Lizzie Worrel the following morning. I thought that would be it for the day, but just after lunch, the telephone rang again.
It was Dinah Caudle.
‘I’ll see if Lady Hardcastle is available,’ I said once the introductions were done.
‘Oh, don’t bother with that. You’re as much a part of all this as she is. I’ll tell you and then you can pass it on.’
‘As you wish,’ I said. ‘What’s the news?’
‘That’s the girl,’ she said. ‘I’ve just deciphered a section about our friend Nathaniel Morefield. A little financial revelation.’
‘Financial?’ I said. ‘Fraud?’
‘Nothing so glamorous,’ she said. ‘Just some banking information.’
‘It’s reassuring to know that our banks are so discreet,’ I said.
She laughed. ‘No one is discreet,’ she said. ‘You of all people should know that. You must have had helpful contacts in your previous line of work. Some sympathetic soul on the inside who slips you a few juicy titbits from time to time.’
‘I’m familiar with the concept,’ I said. ‘Brookfield knew someone at the bank?’
‘They played football together. Been pals for years. I was introduced to him once. Nice chap. Good at his job but he has a conscience – he was as angry as Brookfield about some of the goings-on in the city council so he passed on anything he thought suspicious.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘And what did he pass on?’
‘Morefield was in debt up to his eyeballs.’
‘Is that suspicious?’ I said. ‘Lots of people are in debt.’
‘Not like this. He owns several properties as well as his home – all mortgaged to the hilt. He has loans secured against his interests in several companies, and a substantial overdraft. He lives as though he’s the richest man in town, but the harsh truth is that he’s barely got a pot to piddle in, and is struggling to repay the debts. According to Brookfield’s notes he’s “about an inch and a half from bankruptcy” and his creditors are circling.’
‘How does that help us?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know yet,’ she said, somewhat deflatedly. ‘But it’s certainly juicy, and Brookfield thought it important enough to make a note of.’
‘I’ll pass it on and see what Lady Hardcastle has to say.’
‘You do that,’ she said. ‘I’ll press on and see if the next section is any help.’
We said our goodbyes, and I hung up the telephone.
‘What have I missed?’ asked Lady Hardcastle as she came out of her study into the hall.
I recounted the details of the telephone conversation as succinctly as I could.
‘It’s not enough to hang the man on its own,’ she said when I was done. ‘But the more we find out, the blacker it looks against him. She’s making good progress, our Dinah.’
‘She is,’ I said.
‘Our visit to Lizzie Worrel tomorrow should be a little less bleak. I’m not dreading it quite so much now. Perhaps we can take her a treat.’
And so it was that at ten o’clock on Friday morning we were sitting outside Horfield Prison, shivering and sipping tea from a flask, with one of Miss Jones’s magnificent Madeira cakes in a tin at our feet.
‘Whatever other features Fishy includes in this new motor car he’s building us,’ said Lady Hardcastle as she handed me her cup for a refill, ‘I shall have to insist that he provides some means of heating the passenger compartment. I haven’t been this cold since Prague in ’04.’
‘Are you keeping him up to date with your list of requirements?’ I asked.
‘We are in regular contact,’ she assured me. ‘He’s fascinated by the whole thing, it seems. He says he’s only ever had to think of things to make a motor car go faster. The driver’s comfort and convenience have never been of any concern. But now he’s having to design a machine that will not only “spank along at a decent clip” but which must also “meet the needs of the world’s most demanding driver”.’
‘It sounds like we’ll both be in our dotage by the time it’s ready.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ she said. ‘What I didn’t know was that he’d already built most of it before we began speaking of it. He’s planning to come down in it in a couple of weeks.’
‘How exciting,’ I said. ‘So we need to arrange a series of heroic tasks for Miss Caudle and Lady Bickle to see which of them is worthy of the Rover.’
‘I was just going to ask them to sort it out between themselves, but your plan has merits. Could you include some sort of weed-hacking challenge, do you think? That might solve our garden wilderness problem.’
‘I told you we should just find Old Jed and employ him.’
We were interrupted by the silkily burbling arrival of Lady Bickle’s Rolls-Royce. It was time to go in.
We passed through the familiar formalities of admission and were led by the same sour-faced wardress down the same drab corridors to the same bleak cell. We were given the same sullen instruction to bang on the door when we were done, and were then let inside.
Lizzie Worrel looked dreadful, and smelt slightly worse. She was not looking afte
r herself at all.
‘Good morning, Lizzie,’ said Lady Bickle brightly. ‘We’ve come to see how you’re getting on.’
‘That’s kind,’ said the wraith in the corner, whose skin seemed to be the same shade of grey as her prison dress.
We spoke for a while of practical matters. We gave her the cake in the hopes that it might inspire her to eat properly. As gently as we could, we also tried to encourage her to take better care of herself. Eventually the conversation turned towards the investigation. Lady Hardcastle and I outlined the events of the past couple of weeks and there seemed to be a glimmer of something that might develop into hope in Miss Worrel’s eyes.
‘So I should say we’re making quite good progress,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We’re beginning to think it all has something to do with the Men’s League for Opposing Woman Suffrage. Everywhere we turn we find one of their members up to no good.’
‘I’ve heard of them,’ said Miss Worrel. ‘Load of old windbags, as far as I could make out. Christian said they—’ She stopped abruptly.
‘Christian said they what, dear?’ asked Lady Bickle.
Miss Worrel said nothing and Lady Bickle appeared to be about to ask again, but Lady Hardcastle held up her hand to stop her. There was a more important question to be answered.
‘Christian?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Christian Brookfield?’
Still no answer.
‘You knew Christian Brookfield?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.
‘We were . . . we were . . . engaged to be married,’ said Miss Worrel desolately.
The silence lasted for a good half a minute before Lady Bickle said, ‘Why on earth didn’t you tell us, dear? You must have been devastated.’
After another lengthy pause, Miss Worrel finally spoke. ‘I was,’ she said. ‘I am. At first I was too shocked to say I even knew him. But then as time went on and I learned what everyone was saying about me, I thought it would look even worse for me if I let on. I’d be accused of killing him over some lover’s quarrel. I just thought I’d best keep it to myself.’
‘How long had you been seeing him?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.
‘Since last summer,’ said Miss Worrel.
‘So you knew of his work?’
‘He didn’t talk about his work much. But I knew he was looking closely at the League and what they were up to. And he did say something about having some juicy stories about some of the city’s more prominent men. But never details.’
‘I can’t say this is the most encouraging revelation of the week,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Although perhaps it would have coloured our thinking if we’d known sooner. Are there any more little titbits of vital information we ought to have?’
Miss Worrel looked more forlorn than ever. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Can’t be helped,’ said Lady Bickle briskly. ‘No use crying over the water under the bridge and all that. At least we know now.’
The other two hadn’t noticed, but I knew Lady Hardcastle well enough to see that she was fuming. She was as calm and polite as ever, but there had been a steeliness to her tone that didn’t bode well for Miss Worrel, whose withholding of this important fact had very obviously disappointed her. It was time to leave.
I banged on the door without asking for anyone’s approval and we said our frosty goodbyes as the wardress opened the door. We followed her out.
‘Trouble in paradise?’ she said as she led us back through the labyrinth. ‘You do-gooders are all the same. Murderers like her will let you down every time, but you keep comin’ back. You’re only foolin’ yourselves.’
‘Oh, do shut up, you spiteful little harpy,’ I said. ‘That’s quite enough from you.’
She turned towards me with a snarl, and her hand reached for the short truncheon in her skirt pocket.
‘Just try it,’ I said, meeting her gaze. ‘I could do with a laugh.’
We completed the rest of our journey to the front door in silence.
Once we were outside, Lady Hardcastle stopped and turned.
‘You swear you didn’t know anything about this?’ she said.
‘About what?’ asked Lady Bickle. ‘About Lizzie and Brookfield? Of course not. I’m as surprised as you.’
‘Very well,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘You can see why I might be irritated, though? We’ve been on this case for three weeks now and suddenly we hear, “Oh, I’ve been wondering how to tell you I was engaged to the victim and I already knew about most of the things you’ve found out.” Do you still vouch for Worrel? Or are we wasting our time?’
‘She’s innocent,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘I believe it in my heart.’
‘Then we’ll say no more about it. I’ll telephone you when we have news.’
Lady Hardcastle walked to the Rover and sat in the passenger seat. I followed and began the tedious process of starting the engine. We left Lady Bickle standing by the side of the road.
We travelled in silence. When we arrived home, Lady Hardcastle hopped out and went immediately indoors while I manoeuvred the little motor car into its shed. I found her in the drawing room, staring at the crime board.
‘Have we been wasting our time?’ she asked.
‘It depends how you define “wasting time”,’ I said. ‘We’ve certainly spent more time than we needed to in chasing information we might already have had. But was it wasted? We have a more thorough picture of things thanks to our own efforts than we might have had if we only had Lizzie Worrel’s vague recollections to go on.’
‘I can’t gainsay you there. But overall? Is it a fool’s errand? Is that stupid girl guilty after all?’
‘I still think not. She doesn’t have an obvious motive for killing Brookfield, or even just burning the shop down as an act of vandalism. In fact, since she almost certainly knew it was his home and that he was fast asleep upstairs, she has even less reason just to start a fire to prove a point.’
‘Again, all true,’ she said. ‘But everyone we’ve found so far who might have an excellent motive for killing Brookfield also has an alibi.’
‘Except James Stansbridge,’ I said.
‘Except him, yes. And, actually, we still need to see if the night porter at Bilious, Fandango, Wallop, and Thud can back up the other two. But I’m pretty certain he will. Even if it’s just out of loyalty to one of the partners, I’m sure he’ll swear blind the two of them were there discussing important matters until the small hours.’
‘Perhaps we should go down there later, anyway,’ I said. ‘I’m sure we’ll think of something.’
‘I confess I was on the verge of giving up a little while ago. But you’re right – we’ve come this far so we ought to see it through. Since the Honourable James Stansbridge still has no clear alibi, I think I’d like to know a little more about him. I’ll telephone Inspector Sunderland at home later and ask him to have a dig around for us. As for the other two, though, I stand by my assertion that Gordon Horden will just say whatever his masters have told him to say. They seem to know about our every move before we’ve made it, so I’m sure they’ll have preempted that one.’
‘We might not get anything from the man himself,’ I said. ‘But I’ll wager they have a log book of some sort to keep track of the comings and goings. We just need some sort of ruse. Nothing too elaborate. We’ve done it before.’
‘Istanbul?’
‘Istanbul,’ I agreed. ‘Shall we give him until eight, let him get settled in?’
‘Let’s do that. I’m still not best pleased by today’s turn of events, but we’ll press on regardless. I’m off out to the studio as soon as I’ve changed. You couldn’t bring me out some coffee and sandwiches in a little while, could you?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll get started on that straight away.’
At a little after eight o’clock that evening we drew up on Small Street and I hopped out of the motor car. Lady Hardcastle allowed me enough time to stow my goggles and gauntlets, and to swap my boots for black plimsolls before sh
e drove off and turned the corner on to Corn Street. I heard the engine stop and knew that she would be several yards beyond the front door of Messrs Churn, Whiting, Hinkley, and Puffett.
I moved towards the corner and listened. I would have been better off on the other side of the road, but the porticoed front door of the council offices was on the corner of Corn Street and Small Street at exactly my preferred spot. The offices were still occupied, even at this late hour, and a woman lurking at the door would certainly have drawn unwanted attention.
After a few moments, I heard Lady Hardcastle’s distinctive voice as she told her tale of woe to the night porter she had so conveniently found at work when her motor car had unaccountably broken down just outside his office. The clank of the bonnet being raised was my cue.
I stole silently towards the front door of Hinkley’s office building on rubber-soled feet. Checking once that Lady Hardcastle had thoroughly engaged Horden in the entirely pointless task of examining the engine for signs of malfunction, I slipped through the front door and into the spacious entrance hall. My shoes squeaked a little on the polished marble floor as I crossed to the enclosed porter’s desk.
As I had hoped, there was a big fat visitors’ log book on the desk. It was open at today’s page and showed that two of the partners – Mr Whiting and Mr Puffett – were still in the building, but that everyone else had gone home for the night. I riffled backwards through the pages until I came to the entries for the twenty-fifth of January. Mr Hinkley had arrived at nine in the morning and had been signed out by Gordon Horden at ten minutes after midnight. Further down the list I saw that Mr N Morefield had arrived to see Mr Hinkley at nine o’clock. He, too, had been signed out by Horden at ten past midnight. Disappointingly, their alibis appeared to be confirmed.
I was about to flick the book back to today’s page when the last entry for the twenty-fifth caught my eye. I had to look twice to make sure I hadn’t misread it. I was still goggling at it when I heard a door open. I just had time to duck under the desk before I heard footsteps crossing the hall and a cheery voice saying, ‘Night, Horden. Not too late for me this evening. Oh, I say. I wonder where he’s got to.’