‘She’s a nice lady.’
‘Of course she is, she’s my mum. You don’t want to get the wrong side of her, though. She can be tough when she wants to be. Anyway, yes, I will have another coffee, please.’
Adam looked round for the waitress. And, as he did so, he was aware of a sudden movement at the next table. A middle-aged man in a dark suit was sitting there, with a tightly-rolled umbrella hooked over a spare chair. As Adam turned, he’d hastily raised his newspaper, and was now studying it intently. It didn’t seem important at the time. The coffee ordered, Adam looked back at Jane. ‘I’ve been asking all the questions. I guess it’s time I did some answering.’
Jane recalled the phrase she’d heard so often in police dramas on the radio and in films. ‘You don’t have to say anything that could be used in evidence against you.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve nothing to hide. I’m rather boring really. The reason I’m not in the army is I’m in a reserved occupation. They think I’m more useful doing my normal job than marching round a barrack square.’
‘Gosh. So what’s your job then?’
‘I’m a marine scientist. Working at the Marine Research Centre at Southend.’
‘Marine research! Does that help the war effort?’
‘They hope so. We study the effect of salt on different metals … ways of converting sea water for drinking … all sorts of things.’
‘You’re a boffin!’
‘A very junior one. I only finished college this year.’
‘So where’s your home?’
‘I haven’t got one at present. I was brought up in Bristol, but my parents sold the house and moved to Canada at the start of the war.’
‘Canada? They’ll be all right over there.’
‘That was the idea. My stepmother has trouble with her nerves, and Dad wanted to get her away from the bombing. He has a brother in Toronto.’
‘Well, well. You’re another loner, like Mark.’
‘I suppose you could say that. In a boarding house you probably get quite a lot of loners.’
‘Yes, we’ve had a few. Some nice, some not so nice. We’ve got a pretty poisonous one at the moment.’
‘You must be thinking of Maurice Cooper.’
‘How did you guess?’
‘He’s not very pleasant, is he? Always finds something to complain about. And he should change his socks more often.’
‘He gives me the creeps. He keeps leering at me, and trying to get his hands on my body. Just because I’m a dancer, he thinks I’m fair game.’
‘I believe he fancies himself as a bit of a Casanova.’
‘God help us! He’s revolting! And he’s old enough to be my dad. Thank heavens he isn’t!’
‘He’s too old for the call-up, of course. Commercial traveller, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he goes round all the shops in Essex.’
‘What’s he flogging?’
‘Household goods, he says. But I bet he does black market stuff as well.’
‘Black market’ meant illicit goods, illegally acquired, often by theft and violence, and sold at inflated prices. German attacks on British shipping had created shortages. Essentials like food, clothing and petrol were safeguarded by rationing. Luxuries like spirits, tobacco, and nylon stockings became rare. This was where black marketeers made their money.
‘Well,’ said Adam, ‘I must say he looks slimy enough.’
Jane was contemptuous. ‘Slimy’s the word,’ she agreed. ‘He’s always hinting that he can get me nylons if I’m nice to him. Eugh! Fat chance!’
‘Look, if he gives you any trouble, let me know. I’ll deal with him.’
‘Thanks. But I can usually cope with creeps like that. I’ve had practice.’
The coffee arrived, and Jane changed the subject.
‘Adam … is it all right if I call you Adam?’
‘Of course.’
‘Adam, there is something I’d like your help with.’
‘Then you’ll have it.’
‘Mark’s stuff is still in his room. The police wouldn’t allow anything to be touched until after the inquest. But now Mum needs to let the room. So someone has to clear it out.’
‘And, because you were his friend, she thinks it’s a job for you.’
‘Right. And I don’t fancy doing it on my own.’
‘That’s understandable. I’ll be glad to help.’
‘Oh, thanks! That’s a great relief. Mark didn’t have many belongings. There’s a few spare clothes and things that can go to the Salvation Army. But we’ll have to go through the pockets. And there are a few personal bits and pieces we’ll have to think about.’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll sort it out.’
‘It won’t be so depressing with two of us. Oh, and there are some bits of post that arrived since Mark’s death. We’ll have to go through those.’
‘Yes, I saw some stuff for him in the hall.’
‘I put it in his room for safety. The thing is, Mum wants the place cleared by the end of the week. But I can’t do tomorrow, I’m at the theatre.’
‘And I can’t do Thursday or Friday – we’ve got a major experiment on. Look, I’m off to work now, but I’ll be back at the Cavendish by nine. We can make a start this evening, if you like. If we reach some decisions, I can take things to the Sally Army in Southend tomorrow.’
‘Right. That’s really good of you, Adam. I’ll be waiting in the lounge at nine o’clock. Gosh, you’ve really cheered me up.’
Adam called for the bill. This time there was no movement from the man with the newspaper. He was totally absorbed in his reading.
Emily Hart hadn’t intended to be a businesswoman. As a child, she’d hoped for a theatrical career. There’d been singing and dancing lessons, and bits in school plays and concerts. She’d even appeared briefly on the professional stage, as one of the fairies in Where the Rainbow Ends, a Christmas attraction at a theatre near her London home. But family money was tight and, when no further offers came along, she’d had to settle for an office job.
Then came marriage, the birth of her daughter, and the move to a semi-detached house in Essex, thought to be a healthier environment for Jane to grow up in. After a few years her husband Fred tired of commuting to London to work every day, and they took out another mortgage, bought the adjoining house, built an extension, and converted the whole into the Cavendish. Fred and Emily were hard workers, and the business prospered. By the time Fred died, in 1938, the mortgages were paid off, and Emily had some staff to help her.
The Cavendish had ten rooms available for guests, and offered a modest serve-yourself breakfast. Cereal packets, bread, margarine, toaster, electric kettle, teapot and other attendant necessities stood on the sideboard each day until 9.30 a.m. Cold supper could be provided, if ordered in advance. But, on the whole, Emily encouraged her guests to be independent.
A key member of Emily’s staff was George Fowler, handyman and general helper. And it was he who answered the doorbell when it rang that afternoon. There was a conversation in the hall, and then George returned to the kitchen.
‘Bloke asking if there’s a room to let,’ he announced. ‘Number six will be coming vacant, won’t it? D’you want me to show him?’
Emily knocked back the last of her tea. ‘No, I’ll deal with it. You get on with fixing that tap in the scullery.’
The visitor was a dark-haired young man, neatly dressed, with a moustache. Probably a business type. He looked like a suitable Cavendish resident. Emily had never quite lost her theatrical abilities and, recognizing a good potential customer, she put on her most winning smile and a warm but business-like voice.
‘Good afternoon,’ she proclaimed. ‘You’re enquiring about a room?’
‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘I’ll be working in this area for the next few weeks. War work, you know. I saw your advert in the local paper.’
‘We’re always pleased to accommodate people on war work,’ said Emily. ‘But I’m af
raid there’s nothing available at the moment. There’s a very nice room coming free next Monday though.’
‘That might do. Can I see it?’
‘By all means. There’s no one in there at present. But there’s some clearing up to be done.’
She led him to the staircase, where the upright at the foot of the banisters was topped by an electric lamp in the shape of a flaming torch. The young man seemed affable, and made conversation as they walked up two flights of stairs.
‘Nice spot, here by the river.’
‘Yes indeed,’ purred Emily. ‘We get very good air.’
‘I read in the paper that some chap who was staying here got killed. Road accident or something.’
‘Yes. Poor Mr Jefferson. That was a great tragedy. Actually, it’s his room that’s becoming available. We rarely have vacancies at this time of the year.’
‘Oh.’ The young man looked slightly uneasy. ‘Dead man’s shoes, eh?’
Emily hurried to reassure him. ‘I don’t think the bad luck will rub off. I’m afraid it seems that Mr Jefferson had been drinking.’ She sighed. ‘The police have only just given us permission to clear his room.’
‘That’s all right. It’ll be cleared by Monday, will it?’
‘Oh, certainly. It’ll be emptied and cleaned over the weekend. Here we are.’
She unlocked a door at a corner of the second floor and opened it. ‘This is one of our best rooms. You have windows on two sides.’
‘That’s good,’ said the man. ‘I like a lot of light.’
He crossed the room and opened the windows in turn, peering out of each with interest. ‘Nice view from this one.’
‘Oh yes. On a clear day you can see right across the river into Kent. And there are always lots of ships out there.’
‘I’ll bring my binoculars.’
‘As you can see, there are plenty of drawers and cupboards. If you need more room, there’s extra storage space allocated in the basement.’
The man seemed interested. ‘Oh. Did the other chap use that?’
‘No, he didn’t. Why do you ask?’
‘Er … well, I’ve got a lot of stuff. So I may need that basement bit. I … er … I was going to ask you to check it was clear before I moved in.’
Emily gave a small deprecating laugh. ‘We wouldn’t need reminding. I have a very efficient staff here.’
‘Yeah, of course, sorry.’ As an afterthought, the man went and sat on the bed. ‘Nice comfy mattress.’
‘I think you’ll find everything in good order here, Mr … er …’
‘Mason. My name’s Mason. What’s the charge?’
‘Twenty-five shillings a week, payable in advance. We provide breakfast. And we need seven days’ notice when you leave. Otherwise we have to charge for the full week.’
‘Fair enough,’ said the man. ‘Right. I’ll let you know in the next couple of days. I’ve got to see if there’s somewhere to stay for the rest of this week. Or I might keep travelling from London.’
Emily held the door open. ‘Don’t leave it too long, Mr Mason. Other people may be after this room. And you’ll need our phone number, won’t you? Here’s my card.’
Thanks.’ The young man looked out of the window again. Then Emily accompanied him downstairs, closing the door behind them.
From the landing above, Maurice Cooper watched them go.
The Cavendish lounge was spacious, the only common room available to all residents. By the door was the sideboard, on which breakfast things stood in the morning. At the window end there were some armchairs, low tables and a bookcase. Here, tilted at various angles, rested a random collection of books, left behind by past residents. These ranged from paperback thrillers and Westerns to a crossword book with most of the puzzles filled in, and a guide to body building, abandoned by a guest, who’d given up after pulling a muscle.
On the mantelpiece stood a radio, the front of its shiny wooden frame built to look like the rays of the sun. From this came the closing signature tune of It’s That Man Again, ITMA for short, the phenomenal comedy series which had delighted and united the British since the start of the war. It was estimated that sixty per cent of Britain’s population heard the show each week. Tonight three Cavendish residents had shared the communal experience. One of them now tapped out his pipe in a large glass ashtray, and rose to his feet. ‘Well, that’ll do for me,’ he said.
‘Not staying for the nine o’clock news, Jack?’ asked his neighbour.
‘No,’ said Jack. ‘I need to stretch my legs. I think I’ll pop down to the White Horse for a nightcap. Care to join me?’
‘Well … yes, I don’t mind if I do,’ said the other. ‘You got your torch?’
‘In the hall,’ said Jack, and the two men set out to brave the blackout.
Left alone, Jane Hart switched off the radio and picked up a copy of Illustrated Weekly, noting with pleasure that it was only a month old. But before she could start reading, Adam came in, still wearing his raincoat and carrying his hat.
‘Hi there,’ said Adam. ‘Ready for action?’
‘I certainly am. Excellent timing, Adam. ITMA just finished.’
‘Good one tonight?’
‘OK. Not as funny as our new comic at the Windmill.’
‘Did you get the house key to Mark’s room?’
‘No, I have my own. Mark had his key copied, and gave me the spare. Don’t tell Mum. Copies are against the rules.’
‘Right. I’ll just take my hat and coat upstairs, and freshen up a bit. I’ll join you in number six in five minutes.’
Two surprises awaited Jane at Jefferson’s room. First, the door was unlocked. And then, when she opened it, she found the light was on. She entered warily. A man was bending over, rummaging through drawers and, as he straightened up, she saw it was Maurice Cooper. The exertion had brought little beads of sweat to his blotchy face. Close by, a cupboard door stood open. Jane was incensed. ‘Mr Cooper! What are you doing in here?’
Cooper licked his lips uneasily. ‘I’m thinking of changing rooms when this one’s free. It’s bigger than mine.’
‘How did you get in?’
‘Very easily, my dear. Your mum lent me the key, so I could look around.’
‘I’m not your dear, Mr Cooper. And looking around shouldn’t involve poking about in drawers.’
‘I’m entitled to see what space I’d have, aren’t I? I got a lot of things to put away.’
‘You can see what cupboards and drawers you’ve got without opening them. And when did my mother lend you the key?’
Cooper had regained his confidence. ‘That’s between me and her – none of your business! She runs this place, not you! You stick to flaunting your tits on stage, and don’t start interfering here!’
Jane flushed. ‘You pig! How dare you talk to me like that?’
‘I’ll talk to you how I like, girl! I’m not taking cheek from a tart like you!’
Cooper kicked the door shut and grabbed Jane’s arm. ‘It strikes me you need a lesson!’
‘Get your hands off me!’ Jane slapped Cooper’s face with her free hand and tried to shake off his grip. But, in spite of his flabby body and pasty features, Cooper was strong.
He was pulling Jane towards the bed when the door opened and Adam came in. He took in the scene instantly, and punched Cooper hard. The man lost his grasp, fell backwards, and landed in a heap on the floor.
Adam was anxious. ‘You OK, Jane?’
Jane breathed deeply. ‘Yes, I’m all right. I found this oaf in here, going through Mark’s things. When I told him off he grabbed me. Once my mum hears about this, he’ll be out on his ear.’
‘And the sooner the better,’ said Adam.
Cooper was getting unsteadily to his feet, showing no inclination to fight. Adam seized the lapels of his shabby suit. ‘Listen to me, you bastard,’ he said. ‘If I ever catch you troubling this lady again, I’ll knock your block off!’ Cooper slouched towards the door. ‘Yeah, you w
ould, wouldn’t you? You’re young and strong. Why aren’t you in the bloody army, fighting for your country, instead of thumping older men?’
‘Get out!’ said Adam.
‘I’m going,’ said Cooper. ‘But you watch your step. I’ve got some friends who’ll sort you out.’ And with that he was gone. Adam glared after him.
‘Shouldn’t you tell your mother straightaway, and get him slung out?’
‘No, it can wait till the morning. She’ll have to give him a week’s notice, so one day won’t make much difference. Right now, I’d rather get on with clearing this room.’
Jefferson had left few belongings. His clothes and toilet kit went easily into the holdall they found in the cupboard. In the top drawer of the dressing table were three envelopes, a railway timetable, a fountain pen, a blank notepad and a wallet. The latter contained some postage stamps, cards from a taxi firm and a London restaurant, and a faded photo of two elderly people, smiling faintly at the camera. The money section was empty.
‘He certainly believed in travelling light,’ Adam observed.
Jane was looking at the photo. ‘And yet somewhere, sometime, he must have had a life. Family, friends and so on. I suppose these are his parents.’
‘Probably.’
‘D’you think someone could trace them from this?’
‘I doubt if anyone would make the effort. Not in wartime. Still, you could give it to the police and see if they’re interested.’
‘Yes. I expect they’ll be round again. What about the other bits and pieces?’
‘There’s not much, is there? Perhaps you could hang on to them for a few months, in case anyone claims them. After that, you can take them for your own use.’ Adam smiled wryly. ‘Make sure you use the stamps before the postage goes up.’
‘That seems fair enough. I’d like to have Mark’s fountain pen as a keepsake.’
‘I’ll take the clothes and stuff to the Sally Army, like I said.’
‘Thanks. That just leaves these letters I brought up.’
Jane took the three envelopes from the drawer, and opened the first. ‘It’s a charity appeal. The Red Rose Society for Children.’
‘Strange,’ said Adam. ‘I’ve never heard of that one. Anyway, I’m afraid that’s for the waste-paper bin. Mark won’t be contributing this year. Let’s see the others.’
The Shadow of Treason Page 2