by Lynda Wilcox
Ann remained unconvinced. “You were dragged away.”
“Yes, but that’s exactly my point. I thought there was an emergency in the next box.”
“And you were right, as it turned out.” Ann’s tone was acerbic.
“Are you sitting in the same seat that you were in that night?”
Ann glanced about. “No, I think I was two seats to my left.”
Eleanor asked her to move and then took her own seat against the wall.
“Now what?” Ann asked.
“Ignoring the stage, who did you notice in the other boxes?”
“Oh, Lor’!”
While Ann reeled off a list of names, Eleanor jotted them down in her notebook, then sat back and closed her eyes.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh! I’m trying to remember who I could see. Aah!” Eleanor’s eyes snapped open. “You mentioned Robert and Barbara Lancashire. Are you sure you saw them both?”
Eleanor had a sudden vivid picture of Barbara — alone — sitting in the box closest to the left hand side of the stage, with one hand rubbing her right shoulder.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Did you see Barbara rubbing her shoulder?”
“Lumme, what questions you ask.”
“Yes, but did you? I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
“All right, darling, keep your hair on. Don’t forget that I’ve been to sleep since then, and had a few cocktails, too.”
Eleanor laughed. “Only a few?”
“Yeah, well, you know.” Ann turned in her seat. “You know, you might be right. I’m not sure that Barbara was rubbing her shoulder, but she had her hand on it.”
“Left hand on right shoulder, yes?” Eleanor struck up the same pose.
“Yes, exactly.”
Was it all beginning to make sense?
Eleanor got to her feet. “Would you do me a favour and move into the box next door while I go and sit where I think Barbara was that night?”
“Uh uh.” Much to Eleanor’s surprise, her friend shuddered violently. “No, I know what you’re up to, and I’ll be Barbara if you don’t mind. I just hope that the manager doesn’t turn the lights out while I’m en-route.”
The experiment proved worthwhile and Eleanor confessed herself well pleased as the two friends left the theatre and climbed back into the Lagonda.
“Well, I’m glad you think so.” Ann settled back against the car’s leather seat. “What does it all mean, though?”
“I’ll tell you in a day or so, when I’ve worked it out myself.”
“What? You mean you still don’t know who killed Bristol?”
“Oh, I didn’t say that.” Eleanor glanced behind her, then pulled away into the London traffic. “But it’s very complicated, and these jewel thefts everyone’s been talking about have something to do with it.”
“Then you’d better solve it quickly, and would you drop me in Bond Street, please? I must do some clothes shopping. I don’t have a thing to wear.”
“Ha! Darling, you tell fibs. Honestly, Ann Carstairs, you’ve enough clothes to dress a small army.”
“Ah, but only if they wore tatters.”
Eleanor let Ann out at the top of Bond Street and drove back along Piccadilly with only half a mind on her driving. The other half was busy elsewhere.
She went back to the beginning of the whole affair. It had started when Barbara Lancashire had engaged her to find a necklace. Only a matter of days later, in which time Eleanor had learned a lot about both Barbara and her stolen property, the commission had been cancelled, yet she continued to hear of other thefts.
Now, it seemed, all the jewellery had been taken from the homes of Government Ministers and Civil Servants. Oh, except for Scarletti the opera singer's tiara. So, perhaps that was unconnected.
The significance of this, taken in conjunction with the case that currently engaged the Major, did not escape her. How, though, were the two things related?
And what of Danny Danvers? Was he involved in any way?
Eleanor hoped not. With that easy going charm he’d spoken of, he made an agreeable companion, though his flattery could prove tiresome. Besides, said a niggling voice inside her, he wasn’t the man she really wanted to spend time with, or kiss with the passion she'd expended on the reporter.
And the man in the shadows? Time to return to Bellevue Mansions, and hope there had been a message from her young scout.
Chapter 21
No one had seen or heard from Joe when Eleanor returned home. The doorman was adamant that the young newsboy hadn’t been around, not even to sell his papers.
“These urchins are all the same, if you ask me, my lady. They come and they go. Doubt you’ll see him again.”
Tilly said much the same thing.
“You can’t expect young Joe to be outside at all hours, my lady, and you were late home last night. You might have imagined that someone was outside, or he could have had a reason for being there.”
“Don’t cluck over me, Tilly. If I wanted to live with my mother I’d go home to Rowsley Park. And I did not imagine it.”
Tilly shrugged, used to this recurring difference of opinion between them. “Besides,” she said, “Joe has probably just taken your money and scarpered.”
That thought had occurred to Eleanor, and it was not one she cared to dwell on. No man made a fool of Eleanor Bakewell, especially when he was only eleven years old, and grimy to boot. She wasn’t prepared to give up on the boy so easily, though.
“He may have done, but I’m still worried.”
She ate a small piece of smoked salmon for lunch, then left the apartment block to collect the Lagonda again.
The previous evening’s lurker was not in evidence, but the street was busy with folk going about their daily business, anyone of whom might have replaced him. Whoever had her under surveillance might have a day and a night shift, with several men at their disposal to have her, and the building, permanently watched.
She shuddered at the thought and stamped on the car’s accelerator, sending it speeding down Piccadilly, heading east towards Fleet Street.
Her intention of asking the Daily Banner’s receptionist for information regarding their distribution depot was thwarted by her running into Danny Danvers on the pavement outside the building.
“Good morning, my lady. A pleasure to see you again.” His eyes twinkled. “Can I hope that, swayed by my company and my easy-going charm yesterday evening, you were coming to see me? Perhaps you’d like me to kiss you again.”
Eleanor smiled in return. “Sadly not, and not in broad daylight in the middle of Fleet Street. I came looking for information about your paperboys.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Not had your paper delivered this morning? That’s subscriptions. You’ll find them on the second floor, though a simple phone call would have done the job.”
“No, it’s not that. I would like to know where the delivery boys get their copies from before they go hawking them on the streets.”
Danny gazed at her sternly. “May I ask why? It’s seems an odd thing to concern a lady like yourself.” He took a step towards her. “Is everything all right?”
She shook her head and debated how much to take him into her confidence. “I don’t know.”
“Has this anything to do with your investigation into Bristol’s murder? Though what paperboys have to do with that I can’t imagine. Still, you know your own business. It’s a bit of a comedown, though, from high-rollers in posh gaming clubs to urchins delivering the Daily Banner. What’s your interest?”
The worry gnawing away inside Eleanor got the better of her. “Danny, will you please just answer the question? I need to know where the papers are handed to the boys. Where do they collect them?”
He held up a placatory hand. “All right. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was so serious. The delivery outlet is just around the corner here in Wilton Street.” He pointed along the road. “Turn right, the
n second left. You’ll see a building with a large open forecourt and a sign saying Daily Banner.”
She held out her hand. “Thank you.”
Danny caught hold of it and raised it to his lips. “You’re welcome. Let me know if I can help, won’t you? Murder’s a foul business — and a dangerous one. I hate to think of someone as beautiful as yourself being involved and at risk.”
“Thank you,” she said again. “Your concern is duly noted, but I can take care of myself. However, I’ll call you if there’s anything you can do.”
She turned on her heel and got back into the Lagonda, waving to him as she drew away from the kerb.
The place Danny had directed her to was easily found and she parked again and went inside.
A veritable hive of activity met her gaze as men bustled around carrying bundles of newspapers from somewhere in the rear to a fleet of waiting delivery vans all painted in the Daily Banner’s livery.
She stopped the first person she saw.
“Excuse me, I’m trying to find Joe Minshull. Do you know him?”
The worker nodded. “Oh, aye, everyone knows Joe.”
“Has he been in today?”
“I can’t say, ma’am.” He turned away and yelled at the rest of the workforce. “Anyone seen young Joe Minshull today?”
A chorus of negatives greeted the question and he turned back to Eleanor.
“Sorry, ma’am. You could try asking Bill Dean, the foreman. He’s in that office over there.”
She followed his pointing figure to a small poky room fashioned out of the greater space by the addition of three sections of lath and plasterboard and a single pane of glass. The occupant of the cabin would have the men outside under surveillance at all times.
Eleanor knocked and went in.
“Yes, madam? May I help you?” A squat, thickset man in a brown workcoat looked up as she pushed open the door.
“Mr Dean?”
He nodded.
“Good morning. I’m sorry to bother you.” Eleanor handed over her business card. “I’m looking for one of your delivery boys, Joe Minshull. Do you know him, and have you seen him lately?”
The man glanced at the card, eyes widening, and handed it back. “Well now, Lady Bakewell, I’ve no idea what concern it is of yours, but it’s funny you should say that. I haven’t seen Joe for a day or two, and that’s strange, ‘cause he’s usually very reliable.”
“Would you also say that he was honest?”
He scratched his crooked nose with a blackened finger, leaving a streak of newsprint down one side. “As the day is long. His money always matches to the penny and I’ve never had cause to doubt him.”
Eleanor frowned. “Then I wonder where he is.”
A shrug. “He could be sick, I suppose. The boys work for themselves and don’t have to clock in or anything. The union is trying to change that, get them some security like, but the management don’t want to know.”
“Oh? I thought your last owner, Sir David Bristol, was a socialist, on the side of the working man. Or boy. Was that not so?”
His mouth took on a sardonic twist. “Only if he’s already earning a goodly sum, if your ladyship will forgive me saying so. Bristol and his cronies are only playing at being socialists and giving it lip service, in my opinion. They may have wanted the state to own everything, but if so it was only so they could strip it bare for their own benefit and to line their own pockets.”
Having delivered himself of a viewpoint that Eleanor was coming to suspect was the truth, he sat back and crossed his hands behind his head, looking at her as though daring her to contradict him.
Eleanor did nothing of the sort. It was a conversation she would have loved to continue — she had, after all, been retained to solve the mystery of Bristol’s death — but her main concern, at the moment, was to find Joe.
“Do you happen to know where Joe lives? If so, I would be grateful for his address, please.”
Dean looked down again at Eleanor’s card. “Joe’s not in any trouble, is he? He’s always seemed a good lad. One who kept his nose clean, as it were.”
Except when it was blackened by newsprint, Eleanor thought, looking at Dean’s own nose.
“I sincerely hope not, Mr Dean, and not in the way you mean, but I am concerned about his welfare. If he is that sick that he cannot work, then...”
Let him draw his own conclusions from that unfinished sentence. She tapped her foot on the floor.
“Well, your ladyship, you’ll understand that it isn’t usual to give out the addresses of our employees.”
“But, Joe isn’t one of the Banner’s employees, is he? Not strictly speaking, and you’ve admitted as much yourself.” She placed her hands on the paper strewn desk and leant towards him, eyes softening. “Please, Mr Dean. I only want to help Joe.”
Whether it was the pleading look, or the soft voice that did it, Eleanor was never to know, but the foreman got up from his chair and went to a filing cabinet. He lifted out a folder and began to rifle through it.
“As I recall, the Minshulls have rooms in Cook Place. It’s not far from here, on the opposite side of Fleet Street.” He turned over a few more scraps of paper. “Ah, here we are. The Minshulls are at number 5.”
“Thank you.” Eleanor was out of the office before the filing drawer had closed.
Cook Place, when she eventually found it, turned out to be a ramshackle row of old cottages that even the Victorians, with their zeal for cleanliness and good sanitation, had failed to pull down, although someone ought to have done so, in Eleanor’s estimation. Little more than hovels, their tiled roofs leaned together like a party of drunks on the way home from the pub.
Gripped by a strong temptation to turn and flee, Eleanor had to steel herself to rap on the door. It was opened by a child with a surprisingly clean face wearing ragged trousers held up by string. His too big shirt was frayed at cuff and collar.
“Hello.” Eleanor smiled down at a younger version of her quarry. “Is Joe at home?”
“No.”
He made to close the door, but Eleanor got her foot in the opening. “Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Dunno. A day or so ago.”
“Who is it, Georgie?” A quavering female voice called out from inside. “Who’s there?”
The child addressed as Georgie turned his head and looked back into the room. “A lady.”
Eleanor stepped inside, pushing the boy gently to one side. “Mrs Minshull? Forgive the intrusion, but may I come in and speak to you for a moment, please?”
Propped up on one elbow, a middle-aged woman lay on a mattress next to a small fireplace. A threadbare blanket covered her and she plucked at it fitfully as she stared up at the visitor.
The grate was largely bare of coal and the fire gave off smoke but little warmth into the cold, damp room. Black mould spread its disgusting fingers along the top of one wall, and Eleanor shuddered despite herself.
“It looks like you already have done.” Mrs Minshull coughed and clutched a scrap of fabric to her mouth. She took a sip from a glass of water on the floor beside the mattress. “Blimey! I thought our Joe were tellin’ porkies when he said he’d met a lady. Were it you he were talking about?”
“Your son told you the truth, Mrs Minshull. I’m Lady Eleanor Bakewell.”
“Yeah, that was the name. Wotcha want?”
“I’m looking for Joe.”
“Ha! You and me both!” A fit of coughing racked her frame and she collapsed back exhausted onto the bed. “I haven’t seen him in three days. Don’t know where he is or what’s happened to him and I got the ‘flu so bad I can’t go looking for him neither.” She raised a pair of piteous, red rimmed eyes to Eleanor. “Gawd help us all.”
“Does Joe always come home?”
“Yes, always. He’s a good lad is our Joe. I lost his dad in the war when Georgie was only a baby. Joe considers himself the ma
n of the family, now, an’ does his best to look after us all.”
Mrs Minshull coughed and lay back, the effort of speech clearly tiring her.
Eleanor looked around her in despair, unable to shift the feeling that Joe’s disappearance was somehow her fault and that she had to make amends.
“I’m going to fetch a doctor,” she announced, and all hell broke loose, as the woman on the mattress screamed and the youngster started to cry.
Chapter 22
Eleanor calmed Mrs Minshull’s cries that she could not afford a doctor or a hospital, by the simple expedient of paying for the former herself.
Dr Laverick was a kindly, elderly man, who examined Joe’s mother thoroughly, divested himself of the opinion that a change of living accommodation and diet would do wonders for the health of most of the capital’s poor, and finally diagnosed a mild bout of influenza.
“I know that.” Mrs Minshull wheezed. “I just can’t afford no medicine.”
“I can,” said Eleanor, and handed over the doctor’s fee in return for a prescription.
“Should I take her to a hospital?”
The doctor shook his head. “I doubt it’s that severe, but she really needs to to be in the warm and dry.”
Eleanor fetched the medicine, bought a bag of groceries, arranged for a delivery of coal and returned to the sick woman.
“Do you have a job, Mrs Minshull?”
She took a sticky bun out of the grocery bag and offered it to Georgie. The child’s eyes widened, but it looked to its mother first, and only with her nod of approval did he take the treat from Eleanor’s hand.
“Fank you.”
“I did have, but I lost my job when I fell sick. Look, I'm grateful, an’ all, but why are you doin’ all this? What’s in it for you?”
“I need you to get well.” Eleanor pulled her coat closer and hugged the collar to her neck. “Then I’ll have a proposition to put to you. I would move you and your child from here right now, but that won’t help Joe if he comes back and you’re not here.”