by Lynda Wilcox
“So, what do you intend to do, now?” Tilly poured herself a cup of coffee. She had made a pot for them both and, until now, waited for her mistress before broaching it. There was no point in letting it go cold and Eleanor still nursed her wine.
“I’m not sure. At some point I shall have to go back to the theatre. Ann Carstairs has given me a list of some of the people who were there and —”
“And me? What can I do?”
Eleanor glanced up at the clock on the mantelshelf. “You could go to the Viceroy, if you would, and take a note to Deanna Dacre that I shall give you. Then bring her reply back here.”
“Yes, all right.” Tilly brightened. She might not approve of the actress after what she’d just learned, but she was still a star to Tilly.
“While you’re gone, I shall telephone Major Armitage, and then I may go and call at the offices of the Daily Banner. I want to gather as much gossip as I can about their erstwhile owner and that seems like a good place to start.”
Chapter 14
With Tilly off on her errand, Eleanor picked up the telephone and gave the Major’s number.
“I can’t speak at the moment, my lady,” he said, when they were connected. “Do you remember the cafe I took you to during the Eisenbach affair? Could you meet me there?”
“Yes, I think I should find it again. I’m going to the offices of the Daily Banner, so shall we say around four o’clock?”
Happy with this arrangement, Eleanor ended the conversation, called for the Lagonda to be brought around, then sped off to Fleet Street.
Here among the hustle and bustle associated with the home of Britain’s national newspapers, and next to St Bride’s church, she found her destination.
Entering the building felt like entering the lion’s den, and heads turned as her elegant figure crossed the lobby and made for the reception desk. She heard more than one wolf-whistle which she ignored while smiling inwardly to herself. Her decision to dress to impress was paying off, even if only to the general workforce. Eleanor had bigger fish to catch.
She gave her name to the man at the desk, asked to speak to the editor, and after a short delay was shown up to his office on the top floor.
“What can I do for you, Lady Eleanor? Take a seat.”
The grizzled man in his late fifties, wearing an open-necked shirt and braces, eyed her closely, then nodded to himself as if in approval of what he saw. Cuthbert Driscoll had worked in Fleet Street since he’d started as a runner at the age of eleven. In that time he had met and interviewed an awful lot of women, but none with such an air of cool assurance and self-possession as the attractive young woman who now stood before him.
He wasn’t to know that Eleanor felt like a naughty schoolgirl in front of the headteacher.
“Thank you, Mr Driscoll, and thank you for sparing the time to see me.” She waved a hand in an attempt to dispel some of the cigarette smoke that filled the room. “I’m a private enquiry agent, and have been asked to look into the murder of Sir David Bristol on behalf of Miss Deanna Dacre.”
“Have you indeed!” Driscoll leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. “And what is it you think I can tell you? That I haven’t already told the police, that is.”
Eleanor smiled impishly at him. “Oh, I have no doubt that Chief Inspector Blount will get his man — or woman, should that prove to be the case — though the police are unlikely to discuss their findings with Miss Dacre.”
“And you will?” He reached for a packet of cigarettes.
“Should I uncover anything, yes. I’ll also inform the police in that case, too.”
He leaned forward quickly. “What about this newspaper? If I tell you what you want to know, will you give us an exclusive interview on how you solved it?”
Eleanor hadn’t expected that and took a moment to consider the proposition. As she’d told the Banner’s reporter, she had absolutely no intention of having her name splashed across the paper’s front page together with a photograph of her standing open-mouthed because the camera man had taken her by surprise. She shuddered at the mere thought of the notoriety that would bring her.
“Perhaps we can do a deal, Mr Driscoll.”
“Oh, how so?”
“I am already in touch with your reporter, Mr Danvers. On the proviso that my name, and my photograph, appear nowhere in your paper, I will give him the full story, to go with his byline, on the completion of my investigation.”
“Hmm.” The editor puffed at his cigarette, sending grey clouds puthering upward, then slapped the desk. “Done. All right, your ladyship. I’ve got deadlines, so I’ll give you ten minutes to ask whatever you like.”
Eleanor nodded and spoke quickly, making the most of her opportunity.
“Did you know him well, sir?”
A sour look twisted the lined, tired face. “As well as I wanted to. He bought the paper approximately five years ago, and while I’ll admit that he improved our failing fortunes, it came at a price.”
“He used the Banner as a political mouthpiece, you mean?”
“I do indeed.”
“Did he work from here?”
Driscoll shook his head. “He had a private office further along this floor, but hardly ever used it. For the most part, the day-to-day running of the place was left to me and my team of sub-editors, and the print and distribution managers.”
While he was talking, Eleanor slipped her notebook and pen from her bag and began jotting things down.
“Bristol had a suite of offices on Bromwich Street, number 23, and ran his various business ventures from there. You’ll find his secretary there, Miss Maud Haringay. She’s an efficient woman, but I warn you, she bites.” He gave an avuncular smile and Eleanor almost warmed to him. Almost, but not quite.
“I take it you know of his relationship with Miss Dacre.”
It wasn’t a question, more a statement of fact. Eleanor doubted that much got past the attention of the man on the other side of the desk.
“And I assume you were told to keep it out of the paper. Is that right?”
“Yes, of course, though we were allowed to sing her praises regarding her work on the stage, naturally enough.” He scratched at his cheek with ink stained fingers. “Bristol once told me that if so much as a breath of scandal about either himself or Dacre appeared in the Banner, then he’d sack the lot of us. He would have done, too.”
“He can’t have been easy to work for.”
“Oh, he was easy, he just wasn’t pleasant. It’s only two days since I wrote and printed his obituary, and I kept it to a mere biography — I had no sympathy, either with him or his politics, to turn it into a eulogy.”
“Between you and me, Mr Driscoll, Deanna Dacre described him as shady. She thought his business practices suspect. Would you agree with that assessment?”
Driscoll let out a whistle, his grey bushy eyebrows rising. “I really couldn’t say, your ladyship. I knew little of his other dealings. He seemed honest enough in his dealings with me and the Banner, but I didn’t trust him an inch. It always struck me as odd that Bristol, a capitalist if ever I met one, should use the paper to promulgate Socialist dogma and push Socialist policies.”
“Did he write his own editorials?” Eleanor wondered how much say the editor-in-chief had had in what appeared in the Banner.
“Yes. Oh, don’t get me wrong, we are all working men on this newspaper, but some of the things we printed...well...” He shook his head, frowning.
“Did anyone here, any member of staff, have a grievance against Sir David? Mr Danvers said he’d had a row with him not that long since.”
Driscoll laughed, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Yes, I heard about that. Danvers was in his cups, and he’s an argumentative bugger at the best of times, begging your ladyship’s pardon. Mind, he’s a good reporter. I’ve no doubt he’ll get his promotion soon.” He gave Eleanor a shrewd glance. “I can see where you are going with this, my lady, but no one at the Banner
, myself and Danvers included, had any reason to murder Bristol. You can take my word on that.”
Could she? Eleanor wasn’t so sure. Driscoll seemed mild mannered enough, for an editor, but she hadn’t ruffled his feathers. There would be time for that if she could connect anyone at the Banner with a plausible motive for killing its owner. She got to her feet.
“Thank you for your time, Mr Driscoll,” she said again. “I appreciate the help. May I come back if I think of anything else? ”
The editor lit another cigarette and considered her request. “Aye, why not?” he said. “If nothing else, you brighten up the place.”
Eleanor took this in the spirit it was intended, as a compliment, and left him to it.
She didn’t however leave the building, or even the floor, but went in search of Sir David Bristol’s office. The door was locked, but that presented no obstacle to someone who had been trained in lock-picking by none other than Peter Armitage.
The obstacle was provided by Eleanor’s own conscience. She had given much thought to how far she would go in order to achieve her objectives and whether she was prepared to commit a crime in order to solve one. The answer to that had been ‘yes’, within reason and if the end justified the means.
With visions of newspaper headlines screaming, Duke’s daughter charged with breaking and entering, Eleanor hung back. Hadn’t Driscoll told her that Bristol had offices elsewhere? So, the chances of there being anything of interest behind the locked door were minimal, and breaking in wasn’t worth the risk.
With a sigh of relief mixed with disappointment she replaced the hairpin she had already taken from her hat, and walked back down the corridor to the stairs.
She chatted for a while to the reporters in the newsroom, though they largely reiterated what the editor had said, that Bristol was not a pleasant man to work for.
“Liked to claim he represented the working man, yet could barely pass the time of day with one.”
“More interested in money, if you ask me.”
“And that mistress of his.”
“Aw, come on, Sid. Who wouldn't be interested in the divine Dacre, eh? Bit of all right, she is.”
Eleanor thanked them and went back to the car. Bristol sounded such a horrid man, she was beginning to wish she'd refused the job Deanna Dacre had pushed upon her.
Chapter 15
Thinking that her journey to Fleet Street had been largely a waste of time, Eleanor drove away and considered what approach she should take with Bristol’s secretary, Miss Haringay.
She had been happy to name her client to Driscoll, whom she took to be a man of the world, but any mention of Deanna Dacre might not go down so well at her next port of call.
Bromwich Street lay in an area of London that was unfamiliar to Eleanor. She drove around the surrounding streets, acquainting herself with the area for some little time before she parked and walked to the entrance of what had once been an elegant Georgian townhouse, similar to the Bakewells’ own.
In the open plan lobby, an exceedingly glamorous receptionist possessed of a large bosom flashed Eleanor a toothy smile and demanded to know how she could help. The smile beat a fast retreat at the mention of Miss Haringay’s name, however, and she took Eleanor’s card as gingerly as if it were on fire, and disappeared with it through a side door.
Left to her own devices, Eleanor stared around at the opulent surroundings, not much changed since the days when Number 23 had been a private residence. A pair of fine oil paintings hung on one wall, portraits of previous owners, perhaps, and she strode across for a closer look.
The paintings were dark with age and so in need of cleaning it was impossible to see who had painted them. Maybe Totters with his degree in Fine Art would have been able to identify and tell her more about the artist, but Eleanor’s attention was in the detail of the clothing which was lavishly embroidered, each stitch clear and precise upon the canvas even under the murk and grime.
She stared so intently that she almost missed the conversation taking place some distance behind her. The voices of a man and a woman were low, but distinct.
“The shoulder isn’t important now. I know it’s Thursday.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Quite sure. Nine o’clock. Don’t be late.”
“I am never late,” came the waspish reply.
The man’s voice was unmistakeable, but the woman’s voice, although distinctive, was unknown. Eleanor did not turn around. She stepped closer to the wall and lowered her head to peer at the painting.
A cold draft on her ankles announced the opening of the front door and she shifted her position slightly, careful to keep her back to the opening and the two people on the step.
“Have no fear.” The man’s voice was confident. “We shan’t fail.”
The second voice was muted in reply before the door closed.
Eleanor went over the conversation, fixing every word in her mind. She would report it to Armitage later.
“Lady Eleanor Bakewell?”
A hand fell on her arm. Eleanor looked down at it. “Yes?”
“I’m Miss Haringay. You wished to see me?”
The waspish voice went with a waspish face. Small, grey haired, and wearing a pair of wire-framed spectacles on her sharp bony nose, Sir David Bristol’s secretary had clearly been chosen for her competence, not her looks.
“Yes, Miss Haringay. I am a private enquiry agent and I wondered if you could spare me a few minutes please, regarding the death of Sir David Bristol.”
The secretary’s thin-lipped mouth tightened, giving the impression of having just sucked a lemon. Impossible to avoid the assumption that Miss Haringay made a habit of such an activity, because she enjoyed it.
“Very well, you had better come through to my office.”
She led the way to the door that the receptionist, who was now back at the desk and writing assiduously, had previously entered. The room appeared little bigger than a cubicle, an effect mainly due to the amount of space occupied by filing cabinets.
A large map of the world covered the wall behind the desk in the centre of the room which itself was covered with a map and a multitude of papers. Miss Haringay scooped everything into a drawer before picking up the telephone and telling the switchboard operator that she was not to be disturbed.
“Now then, your ladyship, would you tell me what concern the passing of Sir David is of yours?”
“I have been retained by a client to look into the circumstances of his murder and —”
“What client?” The thin mouth snapped.
“I’m afraid I am not at liberty to say. I’m sure you are familiar with the concept of client confidentiality.”
“Indeed.” She tilted her head to one side, the small dark eyes taking in every aspect of Eleanor’s appearance. She picked up her visitor’s business card. “If I may say so, a private enquiry agent seems an unlikely role for a lady.”
Eleanor didn’t miss the implication of the words.
“My father, the Duke of Bakewell would no doubt agree with you. I will, however, admit to an interest of my own in Sir David’s tragic death. I was at the Viceroy theatre that evening, and found his body.”
“Dear me.” The eyes behind the spectacles flickered. “Did you see who shot him?”
Eleanor shook her head. “Sadly not.”
“Well, I know nothing about it, so why come to me?”
“Because I didn’t know the man, and you did. What line of business was he in?”
A shrug from the other side of the desk. “Sir David had many interests. As well as owning the Daily Banner he had business dealings around the world.”
“So I see,” Eleanor said. She stood up and crossed to the map, noting the coloured pins with which it was studded. “Paris, Rome, Berlin. Did he travel to all these places?”
Miss Haringay had not moved from her desk. “Sometimes. He also owned several import and export companies.”
“And what did t
hey deal in?” Eleanor returned to her seat, noting the secretary’s furious glare.
“Various commodities.”
There was more chance of getting blood out of a stone than information out of Maud Haringay. While acknowledging that this would be an essential and necessary attribute when dealing with sensitive business matters, it did not help Eleanor in her task.
“Did Sir David have any enemies, anyone that he might have wronged in business, perhaps?”
“Certainly not. He was a most ethical man. In the cut and thrust of the business community it is sometimes an advantage to do your opponent down. Sir David never would.”
Eleanor doubted this. Driscoll had said that Bristol was not a pleasant man to work for, and Deanna would not have called her lover shady had he been as ethical and honest as his secretary was trying to make out.
She might have been in love with him, of course, but that was one question Eleanor wasn’t prepared to ask.
“Had you worked for him long, Miss Haringay?”
“Nigh on thirty years.”
“And who will take over now that he is gone?”
“I couldn’t say. I am sure he made provisions for the respective companies and that will be in his will, which hasn’t been read as yet. Personally, I shall retire. Sir David always said that he would leave me well provided for, and I have my eye on a little cottage in the village of Haversham. I shall read, and devise crossword puzzles.”
This was quite a speech for the taciturn Miss Haringay, and the adroit change of subject had not escaped Eleanor’s notice.
“Are you a devotee of crosswords?” she asked.
“Yes, I have been since I did the first one in Pearson’s magazine a year or so back. They are greatly to be recommended for improving one’s vocabulary and mental acuity, in my estimation.”
Miss Haringay’s mind was sharp enough. Eleanor wondered what she was missing, and whether, like a conjuror, the secretary was distracting her attention away from what really mattered — whatever that might be.
“And the theatre? Were you perhaps there that evening?”