by T E Kinsey
‘Right you are,’ I said. ‘Dinner will be on the table in ten minutes.’
I left her to make her calls.
On the dot of nine we were parking the Rover on Berkeley Square. Inspector Sunderland was leaning against a lamppost reading a newspaper.
‘You look like the most disreputable of loafers, standing there like that,’ said Lady Hardcastle as we approached him.
‘You’re not the only one to think so,’ he said as he stood up straight. ‘The local bobby has already tried to move me on.’
‘Oh dear. Have you been here long?’
‘Ten minutes or so,’ he said. ‘I strolled up the hill somewhat more quickly than I anticipated. But all is well – I have my newspaper. And now you’re here. Good morning.’ He folded his newspaper and doffed his hat.
‘And good morning to you,’ she said. ‘Shall we go up? Have you met Lady Bickle before?’
‘Only briefly. Gosling is a friend of her husband’s. I had need of Gosling’s services one evening and I had to drag him from a dinner with his pals. She seemed like a charming young lady.’
‘She’s an absolute poppet. She reminds me of a young me in many ways.’
‘I don’t remember you ever being a poppet,’ I said.
‘I was winsome charm personified,’ she said. ‘Absolutely adorable. Everyone thought so.’
‘It must have been before I met you.’
‘Number five, is it?’ asked the inspector as we reached the top of the steps.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But they’re numbered from the right.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘This used to be my beat.’
‘Did it really? How delightful. I can imagine you in a tall hat, carrying a truncheon, with a whistle on a chain,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘I’ll have you know I looked extremely dashing in my blue serge,’ he said. ‘I still have a whistle on a chain – we all do. And I often carry a detective’s truncheon. I met my wife while I was in uniform – she’ll tell you how handsome I was back then.’
‘I don’t doubt it for a second,’ she said. ‘Here we are.’
Williams answered the door so quickly that I wondered if he’d been positioned behind it, waiting for our ring at the bell. With a polite, ‘Good morning,’ he took our coats and led us straight to the drawing room.
Miss Caudle was already there and was pouring herself a cup of tea.
Lady Bickle welcomed us, and Lady Hardcastle dealt with the introductions.
‘It’s wonderful to meet you properly at last, Inspector,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘I don’t count that time you dragged Simeon away from us. But Emily sings your praises at every opportunity and we’re all delighted that you’ve been helping us on the QT. I do hope it hasn’t caused you any difficulties.’
‘None at all, my lady,’ he lied.
‘That’s a relief,’ she said.
Dinah Caudle and the inspector were old sparring partners, but they both seemed to appreciate the expediency of getting along. They greeted each other with curt civility.
‘It’s over to you, Emily, I think,’ said Lady Bickle once we had all been supplied with tea and somewhere comfortable to sit.
‘Thank you,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I think we’re all up to date with the latest information. Yes? Good. As I see it, we have two missions. Our first priority, now that we’re absolutely certain of her innocence, is to free Lizzie Worrel and arrest Beattie Challenger in her place. In order to do that, we need to find some actual evidence. Secondly, we need to finish what Christian Brookfield started and find out enough about the planned gold theft that we can simply present everything to the inspector’s superiors on a plate. I don’t think it’s our place to foil a robbery, but in the current climate I also don’t think the higher-ups at the Bridewell will take the word of a handful of suffragettes over that of men of standing and substance like Morefield, Crane, and Hinkley. I’m sure most people would believe anything of the Honourable Jimmy, but even then his father would probably step in.’
‘Why isn’t it our place?’ asked Miss Caudle. ‘What’s to stop us going to the docks and rounding them all up?’
‘Numbers, mostly,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I bow to no woman in my admiration of Flo’s skills, and I’m not a bad shot myself when it comes to it, but the four of us against who knows how many toughs under the command of a decorated former soldier? I wouldn’t rate our chances, honestly.’
Miss Caudle frowned, but said nothing further.
‘So what do you want us to do?’ asked Lady Bickle.
‘It’s the twenty-fourth today, and the gold is arriving on Monday, the twenty-eighth. With only four days to go, my bet is that our conspirators will be on the move. We have no idea what they’re planning, but it’s certain that men and equipment will have to be moved up into forward positions soon. There should be signs of activity, and with careful surveillance we might manage to tumble their plan in time to alert the authorities. So. Miss Caudle, I’d like you to keep an eye on the comings and goings at the council offices. You can see the front door from Crane’s on Corn Street. Set yourself up at a table by the window and watch. Pretend to be writing – no one will bother you. One of us might be able to relieve you later in the day if you find that you’re outstaying your welcome.’
‘Right you are,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘Although in the past they’ve conducted their meetings at night so I might not see anything.’
‘That’s true,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But as the time for action approaches, they’re likely to have to take more chances. It’s definitely worth your while.’
Miss Caudle nodded her assent.
‘Georgie,’ continued Lady Hardcastle, ‘I’d like you to keep a close eye on Beattie Challenger. Do you think you might be able to shadow her when she leaves the shop?’
‘Rather,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘It was a game we played at my awful finishing school. I was never caught.’
‘Splendid. We need to know where she goes and whom she meets. Anything that might give us a clue as to what her part is in all this. Meanwhile, I’ll keep an eye on the Honourable Jimmy – you have his address, don’t you, Georgie? He’s a military man so he should be a sight more aware of being followed than Beattie and it might take some of our old skills to keep from being tumbled. I’ll need your help, Flo, but you have another job first.’
‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘Do you by any chance want me to break into Beattie’s flat while she’s at the shop and see what I can find?’
‘That’s precisely what I would have had in mind if the inspector weren’t here, yes,’ she said.
‘Don’t mind me,’ he said, ‘I’ve always had terrible hearing. And I’m not here, anyway.’
‘Good man,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘While you’re not here, would you mind keeping a weather eye on Hinkley and Crane? Brookfield says they’re the money men, but they might do something to give the game away. Particularly Crane – the man’s an idiot.’
‘My pleasure,’ said the inspector. ‘Don’t forget that I’m working on this case in an official capacity already so I’ll shake a few more trees to see what falls out.’
‘Thank you. Which reminds me – we’re all excited about a “gold shipment” but we’ve no idea how much there is, in what form it’s being transported, where it’s going, nor whence it comes. I’m sure it’s all terribly secret and I’d never have asked otherwise, but if it can help . . .’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘The gold is a payment from certain mining interests in Chile for essential equipment from a number of British engineering companies. It’s being transported in the form of thirty gold bars, weighing a little over twenty-seven pounds each, with a total value of about a quarter of a million pounds.’
There were oohs of appreciation and a ‘Well strike me pink!’ from Lady Bickle.
‘Indeed,’ continued the inspector. ‘The whole shipment weighs over seven hundredweight and is being accompanied by a platoon from the Chilean army until
it arrives at Avonmouth. Once there it will be transferred into the loving care of a group of heavily armed men privately hired especially for the job. We’ve verified their bona fides – they’re good men.’
‘And from there?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.
‘The gold will be transferred to a train that will take it to London, where bankers will do whatever mystical things it is that bankers do to transform gold into credits in the engineering firms’ accounts ledgers.’
‘Robbing a moving train on the mainline from Bristol to London wouldn’t be impossible,’ I said. ‘But it wouldn’t be easy, either. I’d say the vulnerable time would be at the docks while it’s being manhandled from the ship to the train.’
‘Getting away would be a problem, surely,’ said Miss Caudle.
‘It would,’ agreed Lady Hardcastle. ‘But there’s this business of the “switch” that Brookfield mentions in his note. I wonder if they’re trying to steal it without anyone knowing it’s gone until it’s far too late to do anything about it.’
‘Which makes it doubly important for us to find out how they’re going to do it,’ said Lady Bickle.
‘Quite so,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Now, we all have our assignments. Is everyone happy?’
There were murmurs of agreement.
‘Any other suggestions? Anything I’ve forgotten?’
We all shook our heads.
‘Time is not on our side,’ she continued. ‘I suggest we get cracking. Would it be all right if we met back here at, let’s say, six o’clock, Georgie?’
‘Of course,’ said Lady Bickle. ‘You’re all invited to stay and eat with us, if you’re able.’
A round of ‘Oh, how lovely, thank you’ preceded an orderly stampede towards the door.
Chapter Sixteen
I should like to be able to tell the tale of the daring burglary of Beattie Challenger’s rooms. Dressed in black and carrying my tools in a knapsack, I would have shimmied up a drainpipe in dead of night and let myself in through a skylight. There would have been a moment of peril when I lost my footing, then more tension as a policeman on his beat passed mere feet below me as I clung motionless to the wall, hardly daring to breathe.
The reality was a good deal more prosaic.
Miss Challenger had rooms in a house on a back street in Redland, a respectable area of the city divided from the more fashionable Clifton by Whiteladies Road. Lady Bickle had visited Miss Challenger at home and had described the layout of the house to me. It was owned by a widow, who occupied the ground floor, using one of the rooms as a bedroom. A partition wall with a door had been built in the hall to provide a separate entrance to the widow’s flat, but leaving open access to the staircase. Thus Miss Challenger had the whole of the first floor to herself and her comings and goings need never disturb her landlady.
The widow, I was told, was a creature of habit, and always left the house promptly at ten to visit a friend who lived a short walk away. She returned at three to be served afternoon tea by her housekeeper.
And so, at ten minutes past ten, Lady Hardcastle parked the motor car round the corner from Challenger’s home. I took the plimsolls – which had been left in the Rover after our adventures at Hinkley’s offices – and put them on. I walked along the quiet street, discreetly checking whether I was being observed, and then in through the widow’s wrought-iron gate, trying not to wince as it squealed on its hinges. There was a moment of suspicious delay while I took out the picklocks concealed in my brooch and used them to open the front door. And then I was in. I relocked the door behind me.
As silently and stealthily as I could manage, I crept up the stairs in my rubber-soled shoes. The housekeeper and maid were almost certainly about their business elsewhere in the house but they would no doubt notice unexpected footsteps on the stairs while Miss Challenger was supposedly at work in the shop.
Her rooms had originally been bedrooms and so they all led off from the landing. I tried the first door at the back of the house and found that it had been furnished as a sitting room. It was neat and ordered, and largely free of personal trappings. There was a book on the little table beside the rather severe-looking armchair, lying open, face down, its spine broken. It looked wounded, and an unhelpfully sentimental part of me wanted to rescue it from its pain. Aside from a fat tabby cat asleep on the chair and an extremely pleasant view across the city, there was nothing of interest to be seen. I would return to the room later if the rest of my search came to nought.
The next room was Challenger’s bedroom. Again it was prissily neat, and again there was a broken-backed book on the nightstand. If we couldn’t get her for the arson, we should at least be able to secure a conviction for cruelty to books. There was a wardrobe against the wall opposite the bed so I stole in for a better look.
The wardrobe was locked and there was no sign of a key, but the lock was a simple one, which quickly yielded to my trusty picklock. A few dowdy dresses hung from the rail along with a couple of plain jackets. The shelves held the expected collection of underthings and sweaters, all neatly folded.
At the bottom of the cupboard were a pair of ‘best’ shoes, a pair of summer shoes, and a pair of boots, whose soles were coming away from their uppers. There was also, crumpled up and stuffed at the back, a large canvas bag. It looked like a sailor’s duffel.
I noted its exact position, and that of the shoes and boots around it, before carefully lifting it from the wardrobe. Something inside it clinked as I placed it on the floor. Inside, I found two tightly stoppered bottles wrapped in a rag, and a few loose sheets of quarto-sized paper. The interior of the bag smelled of paraffin and a quick sniff after uncorking one of the bottles revealed that it still contained a dribble of that familiar flammable oil. I took out one of the sheets of paper.
It was a printed leaflet headed ‘Votes for Women’, which succinctly outlined the aims of the Women’s Social and Political Union. Nothing remarkable there – Challenger was the manager of the WSPU shop on Queen’s Road. I looked again and saw that it didn’t say ‘Women’s’ at all. This was a leaflet for the ‘Woman Social and Political Union’ – the same misprint that had appeared on the leaflets scattered at the scene of the arson attack.
I double-checked the bag to make certain that it contained nothing else of interest. There were at least half a dozen more of the leaflets strewn about the bottom of the duffel, along with a battered box of matches. The leaflet I had removed wouldn’t be missed so I folded it and put it in my pocket before replacing the bag in the wardrobe exactly as I had found it. I had a moment of frustration when the lock spurned the tender advances of my picklock and refused to reengage itself. It took a few moments of silent cursing and some increasingly agitated agitation of the mechanism, but it eventually agreed that it was in everyone’s best interests if it locked itself again.
I glanced about, but there was nothing else in the room. Why are criminals never considerate enough never to leave details of their plans lying about? Better yet, a signed confession. But if Challenger had a journal or notebook of any kind, she almost certainly kept it with her. There wasn’t even anything concealed under the bed.
I left the bedroom and returned to the sitting room, but it was as emptily unhelpful as I had first presumed so I stepped back on to the landing and turned to descend the stairs.
At that moment, I heard the door to the landlady’s apartment open. A pair of boots clopped into the tiled hall. I remained stock-still and waited for the sound of one of those boots on the stair. I might have to duck back into the bedroom and conceal myself beneath the bed if the housekeeper or maid needed to come up to Challenger’s rooms for any reason. At least I knew there was space for me under there.
But the next sound was the front door being unlocked, opened, and relocked. One of the servants had gone out, and to save themselves the walk up the outside steps from the basement, they had used the front door. I heard the scream of the front gate even from upstairs and marvelled that no one had hear
d me coming in.
I gave her a minute to get on her way down the road before I tiptoed back down the stairs and out the way I had come, painstakingly relocking the door behind me. I considered vaulting the noisy gate, but opted instead to lift it slightly on its pin hinges to minimize the racket. It squeaked plaintively, as though frustrated at being denied its chance to sing out, but I congratulated myself on making a largely stealthy exit.
I rejoined Lady Hardcastle and changed back into my boots in the motor car as she drove us across to Clifton. Our next stop was at the fashionable Royal York Crescent, where the Honourable James Stansbridge made his home. We parked at the western end of the road and made ourselves comfortable – he was a night owl so we were prepared for a long wait. Even on a day when he almost certainly had much to do to prepare for the gold theft, he probably wouldn’t rise much before midday.
The long terrace of Regency houses opened on to a broad pavement built on top of the basements that ran beneath them, meaning that the front doors were a good fifteen feet above the road. From where we sat we couldn’t see the doors of the houses, just the vaulted fronts of the basements, many set with doors of their own. Lady Bickle had assured us, though, that Stansbridge’s front door was close to the first flight of steps leading back down to the road and that, for reasons she didn’t understand, it was his habit to descend the steps rather than walk past the houses of his neighbours.
I offered Lady Hardcastle a cup of coffee from the Thermos flask that had been stowed beneath my seat.
‘Thank you, dear,’ she said. ‘I’m glad it’s a little milder today, I must say.’
‘I’m just thankful it isn’t raining,’ I said.
‘Well, quite. But it’s debrief time – what did you find at Cheattie Ballenger’s gaff?’
‘Her home is as boring as she is,’ I said. ‘But she does own a very distinctive sailor’s duffel, in which she keeps bottles of paraffin, matches, and suffragette leaflets.’ I pulled the leaflet from my pocket. ‘Does anything strike you?’ I asked as I gave it to her.