The Burning Issue of the Day

by T E Kinsey

  The next sound was the front door swinging open. The footsteps disappeared into the night.

  I reemerged from my hiding place and quickly put the log book back exactly as I’d found it. I stealthily crossed the hall and had almost made it to the glass-panelled inner door when I saw two figures approaching. The door opened as I ducked into the corner and hid behind a marble plinth supporting a bust of one of the firm’s founders.

  ‘I really am most dreadfully sorry for dragging you away from your work,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Your help has been invaluable, but I do hope I didn’t get you in trouble.’

  ‘No, madam,’ said a man’s voice. ‘Don’t you worry about it at all. That was Mr Puffett. He’s a proper gentleman – he’d most definitely have wanted me to help a lady in distress. I just needs to make a proper note of his leaving time, is all. I’m most particular about it. We keeps a very strict record of comings and goings. You never know when there might be a fire – or worse – we has to have a clear record of who’s in the building and who i’n’t.’

  I peeked out and saw that she had positioned herself so that Horden had his back to the door as he talked to her. I caught her eye as she looked over his shoulder to see where I was. I indicated that I was going to try to get out through the door.

  ‘You really have been an absolute poppet,’ she said. ‘I insist that you take this for your trouble. I don’t know what I would have done without your help.’

  I caught a glimpse of money changing hands as I slipped out through the door as quietly as I could.

  The Rover’s engine was running. I grabbed my driving gear from the storage box and sat in the passenger seat putting my boots back on. It was far too cold to be wearing tennis shoes. Lady Hardcastle joined me just as I did up the last button.

  ‘All done?’ she asked as she pulled away.

  ‘All done and more,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you when we’re clear.’

  We drove back up the hill and found a bijou eatery in Clifton, where we ordered a light dinner and a bottle of wine. I poured two glasses – unlike me, Lady Hardcastle allowed herself one glass when she was driving – and sat quietly, smiling beatifically.

  ‘You can be exasperating sometimes, Florence Armstrong.’

  ‘Me, my lady?’ I said, still smiling innocently. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘You know full well. You come haring out of the office and we rocket off up the street as though we’ve just robbed a bank. You say something enigmatic about what you might have found out and then remain silent for the rest of the journey. You are, as I say, exasperating.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ I said. ‘Before we get to that, might I address a couple of points? First, I didn’t hare out of the office – that would have drawn unwanted attention. I walked casually but quickly. Secondly, the Rover would be incapable of rocketing anywhere, even were we to attach actual rockets to it. It puttered away from the kerb at a sedate walking pace. And thirdly . . . Actually you’re quite right on the last part. I have been exasperatingly enigmatic, but I feel it’s my turn – it’s one of your favourite tricks, is this. A girl likes to get her own back and cultivate an air of mystery of her own once in a while.’

  ‘Well, that’s quite enough mystery for now. The cat must be let out of the bag, the gaff blown, and the show given away. Your mouth, while it is still free of our forthcoming repast, should shoot off. Blab, sister.’

  ‘I learned two things from the well-kept ledger. Both the day porter and night porter have an extremely neat hand. They are to be commended on their penmanship. Or pencilmanship, at least. It’s rare to find a working man whose handwriting is so pleasing. I should think that—’

  ‘I know I’d come off worse in the end, but I’m not above giving you a smack in the chops, you know. Get on with it.’

  I grinned. ‘Well,’ I said. I paused. She glowered. I continued. ‘If we are to trust the ledger – and I think from Horden’s flustered response to his master’s undocumented departure that we would be safe to do so – then Messrs Hinkley and Morefield were, as they claim, both in the building until ten minutes past midnight.’

  ‘Is that it? I waited the best part of half an hour for you to tell me what we already thought we knew anyway?’

  ‘Of course that’s not it. Not by a long chalk. The intriguing new development is that at twenty minutes past eleven that night, they were joined by none other than—’

  ‘The Honourable James Stansbridge,’ she interrupted.

  ‘Well, it’s no wonder I have to work so hard to cultivate an air of intrigue if you’re going to steal my thunder every time. Yes, the arrival of the Honourable Jimmy was noted at twenty past eleven and he is shown as visiting Mr Hinkley. His departure was recorded as ten after midnight. I think it’s safe to assume that he was in the company of the other two since they all left at the same time. How did you guess it was him?’

  ‘The timing,’ she said. ‘We already knew that Jimmy left Cotham just before eleven. It’s about a twenty-minute walk to Corn Street, so he would arrive at twenty past. I’m not clairvoyant or anything. Just . . . well . . . just terribly clever.’

  ‘I can’t argue with that,’ I said.

  ‘You’d be foolish to try,’ she said. ‘But that’s most intriguing. If a little frustrating. Much like yourself. All alibis are now confirmed, but somehow those three are connected. But if not in the murder of Christian Brookfield, then what?’

  ‘League business?’ I suggested.

  ‘No, not that. You said that you and Maude overheard Morefield inviting Jimmy to a League meeting while you were eavesdropping at Gertie’s party. He was nothing to do with the League then.’

  ‘We keep coming back, then,’ I said, ‘to Brookfield’s coded notebook. He must have had a reason for grouping them all together like that. I mean, I know three of them were orbiting Nathaniel Morefield, but that can’t be all there is to it.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, it really can’t. Perhaps Inspector Sunderland has some ideas. He promised to have something for us tomorrow morning and asked that we meet him at “the usual place”.’

  ‘Crane’s?’ I asked.

  ‘Let’s hope so. If it’s not there, then I’ve no idea where to meet him. We’ll just have to hope that waitress ignores Crane’s instruction to kick us out.’

  Just then, our meals arrived and conversation drifted to less murdery matters.

  ‘And that,’ said the inspector, putting down his coffee cup, ‘is why I can no longer play cricket.’

  We had braved light but persistent rain to get to Clifton, and the coffee shop was heavy with the humidity of drying overcoats and softly dripping umbrellas. The inspector had arrived on foot, wearing a waterproof mackintosh and carrying his briefcase close to his body to protect it from the all-pervading drizzle. We plied him with coffee and cake, and allowed him to dry out a little before hounding him for the new information he had promised us. Lady Hardcastle, of course, was unable to wait too long.

  ‘Enough of your manly sporting exploits, Inspector,’ she said. ‘It’s time to talk of other things. Of shoes and ships and . . . whatnot. Of cabbage-heads, and the delinquent third sons of local earls.’

  ‘The Honourable James Stansbridge,’ said the inspector as he reached into his briefcase and produced, as was becoming customary, a manila folder, ‘is a far more interesting character than is commonly portrayed in the popular press. Everything you need is in here.’ He tapped the folder. ‘But it’s easy to summarize. Most of the city seems to know “Jimmy” Stansbridge as an affable drunk and incorrigible – and dismayingly inept – gambler. And so he is. But he wasn’t always thus. It seems our James was something of a hero. Major James Stansbridge, as he was once known, distinguished himself in the Transvaal when he led a small raiding party and thoroughly walloped a much larger group of Boers, who had been engaged in what they called “guerrilla raids”. He beat the Boers at their own game, apparently – sneaked in, caused mayhem, and sneaked out again. He was quite
the hero – they awarded him the Distinguished Service Order.’

  ‘So he’s Major The Honourable James Stansbridge, DSO,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘That makes his fall from grace all the more tragic. Poor chap.’

  ‘It does,’ said the inspector, ‘But it also means that he’s exactly the sort of character to sneak about in the dead of night and burn a man’s house down with him still in it.’

  ‘He would certainly have moved up our list if it weren’t for the fact that last night we confirmed his alibi. He was playing cards till ten, visiting Molly the “Governess” until eleven, and then – and this is the part you’ll really love – spent the remainder of the time during which we presume the fire was started in the company of Mr Redvers Hinkley and Mr Nathaniel Morefield at Hinkley’s office on Corn Street.’

  ‘Do I want to know how you learned that?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘It’s probably best you don’t,’ she said.

  ‘No actual laws were broken,’ I said. ‘But you know how huffy these people get when you go poking around their office buildings – even the public areas.’

  ‘So I suppose you have no idea what he was doing there,’ he said. ‘He owed Morefield money. Perhaps he was making a payment.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Although Morefield was very discreet about Stansfield’s indebtedness at the Farley-Stroud party. Not to mention his own. Stansfield made some comment to one of the others about borrowing a few quid and Morefield said nothing about any existing debt. He advised them not to lend him any money, as though it were the sort of thing only a fool would consider. I’m not sure he would have discussed it in front of Hinkley.’

  ‘Just a moment,’ said the inspector. ‘Did you just say that Morefield has debts?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sorry,’ I said. ‘Dinah Caudle found a reference to some serious debts in Brookfield’s notebook. Morefield is all but bankrupt.’

  ‘That’s a turn-up,’ said the inspector. ‘But it still doesn’t tell us what the devil they were all doing there together.’

  ‘Perhaps they wanted some card-playing tips,’ I said. ‘A few high-stakes games might get Morefield out of trouble.’

  ‘From what I’ve heard, you’d have to be pretty desperate to seek advice from the Honourable Jimmy,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It’s more likely they want access to the earl for some reason.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said the inspector, draining his cup. He reached for the coffee pot.

  ‘Perhaps they needed someone with a little military experience,’ I said, not entirely seriously.

  The inspector, who had been concentrating on pouring himself another cup of coffee, looked up sharply.

  ‘What did you say?’ he asked.

  I reached out and tilted the coffee pot before his cup overflowed. ‘I said that they might need someone with a little military experience.’

  ‘Might they, indeed?’ he mused.

  ‘I was joking,’ I said.

  ‘Many a true word, Miss Armstrong. Many a true word.’

  ‘What has your sleuthing sense detected?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘It’s far too fanciful to say out loud at this juncture,’ he said. ‘But I might end up owing Miss Armstrong a rather large drink.’

  ‘I’m intrigued now,’ she said.

  ‘I’m afraid I would feel foolish to say any more.’

  ‘You and Flo are very alike, you know,’ she said. ‘She torments me with tantalizing titbits, too. “Just you wait, my lady,” she says, all sweetness and innocence. “All will be revealed in the fullness of time.” All will be revealed when she feels I’ve suffered enough, she means.’

  He laughed. ‘I remember that rather better as one of your tricks,’ he said. ‘If it comes to anything, I’ll share it at once. If it doesn’t, I’d rather not look a fool for even thinking it in the first place.’

  She harrumphed. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Shall we get another pot?’

  He pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and flipped open the cover.

  ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘I’ve got plenty of time. Mrs Sunderland is coming into town later to buy a new hat, but I’m not required until then.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  On Monday morning, nearly four weeks after the fire on Thomas Street and Lizzie Worrel’s arrest, the mood in the Hardcastle household was despondent. We’d been chasing our tails for almost a month, learning little other than that the fire’s victim was an energetic and principled journalist who had spent his final few months on earth attempting to uncover the misdeeds of a grubby handful of greedy and dishonourable men. But none of them, as far as we could see, was directly responsible for the fire and the death of Christian Brookfield.

  Lady Hardcastle was in her study when I came out of the kitchen bearing the coffee tray. Her door was open so I hailed her as I passed.

  ‘There’s coffee and cake in the morning room if you’d like to take a break,’ I said. ‘Or there will be, soon.’ I raised the tray to let her see.

  ‘Splendid,’ she said. ‘Just give me a few moments to finish this letter and I’ll join you.’

  I set two places at the table and had just poured myself a cup of coffee when she shambled in.

  ‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘Is that mine? Thank you.’

  I passed the cup across to her and poured myself another.

  ‘What have you been up to this morning?’ I asked as I cut two slices of fruit cake.

  ‘Beyond moping over our lack of progress with the case, you mean? Just a little correspondence,’ she said. ‘It does rather get on top of one if one doesn’t . . . keep . . . on top . . . of it.’

  ‘That was a much more elegant thought while it was still in your head, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was rather. I’m afraid my linguistic powers have been exhausted by my morning’s labours.’

  ‘And how stand the far-flung corners of Empire?’

  ‘Not flung quite as far as you might hope,’ she said. ‘It’s all been local news. I’ve heard from Betsy Leftwich in Norwich, who remains a martyr to her gout and is troubled by an increase in the number of starlings roosting in her eaves. Then there’s Colonel Sawyer – do you remember him from that to-do at the Russian embassy? He wonders if I can recommend a decent gunsmith in Liverpool. Apparently his usual chap has been arrested. And Harry wants an address for Barty and/or Skins. It seems he and Lavinia are throwing a party and would like something a bit more lively than the usual string quartet to entertain their guests.’

  ‘Are we invited?’ I asked.

  ‘As a matter of fact, we are. Early April. Would you like to go?’

  ‘In my best clobber, with ragtime music, free booze, and someone else doing the washing up? Do you even have to ask?’

  ‘I’ll let him know. What have you been up to?’

  ‘This and that.’

  ‘A woman of mystery, eh?’

  ‘Mystery and intrigue,’ I said. ‘But mostly sewing.’

  ‘And answering telephones,’ she said through a mouthful of cake as the telephone began to ring in the hall.

  I did my maidly duty and answered the telephone. I returned a few moments later with a message.

  ‘That was Dinah Caudle,’ I said. ‘She asks that we be kind enough to meet her at the Hog and Ass on Midland Road at our earliest convenience.’

  ‘Did she say why?’

  ‘She did not,’ I said. ‘She had about her an air of mystery and intrigue.’

  ‘There’s a lot of it about,’ she said. ‘We’d better get down there if we wish to find out more. Did she give directions?’

  ‘Clear and precise,’ I said. ‘We can be there in less than an hour.’

  The pub was next to the newspaper building and had been as easy to find as we had been promised. It was absolutely packed, even at midday on a Monday, and we had to look around for a while before we saw Miss Caudle waving to us from a table in the corner. I waved back but her attention had already been diverted by the need to aggressively defe
nd the table and its highly prized empty chairs from predation by a man in a square printer’s cap.

  ‘Good morning, ladies,’ she said once we had fought our way to her. ‘Sorry about the crush – I’d forgotten how busy this place gets between shifts.’

  ‘It does seem very lively,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘These are all newspapermen, I take it.’

  ‘Yes, the printers come off shift after cleaning everything down for tonight’s run. They’re having a drink and a bite before going home. The typesetters are going in any minute. They’re having a drink and a bite to fortify themselves for their day’s toil. The journalists . . . Well, I’d swear some of them lived in here. Can I treat you to lunch? It’s nothing grander than a pie and a pint, but it’s good hearty nosh.’

  ‘That would be delightful,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And for me, please,’ I said.

  ‘Wish me luck,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘And defend my chair with your very lives. I had to kill a man to get this table.’

  She disappeared into the throng.

  We positioned ourselves with the empty chair between us and against the wall. It earned us a few resentful glares from men bearing laden plates and brimming glasses, but they left us alone and went to look for somewhere else to eat their lunch. Miss Caudle returned a few minutes later and we made room for her to sit.

  ‘I sweet-talked the barman into bringing our food and drink over,’ she said. ‘He won’t be long.’

  ‘It’s interesting to see you in your natural habitat,’ I said.

  ‘The Hog and Ass? Hardly. I’m more of a “tea at the Ritz” sort of a girl. Well, I would be if I had the oof – these days you’re more likely to find me at Crane’s. But I thought you might enjoy a taste of the newspaper life at a real newspaper pub.’

  ‘This is the real thing, then, eh?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Despite the agricultural name?’

  ‘As real as real can be,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘The pig and donkey on the sign belie the true origins of the name. In days of yore, you see, the compositors and typesetters had little regard for printers and called them “hogs”. Much aggrieved by this calumny, the printers returned the favour and called the compositors “asses”. At the Hog and Ass, they come together, forget their age-old rivalries, and complain about the writers over a companionable pint.’