by Granger, Ann
‘Apart from the lack of appetite and my grief?’ she returned sharply. ‘Otherwise, as you put it, I am well. I slept but little.’
‘That is understandable. May I ask, madame, where you learned to speak such excellent English?’
A slight smile touched her lips. ‘To see me now, Inspector, you probably would not imagine that when I was young, I was a dancer. Oh, a respectable one! Although I now have a lodging house in Montmartre, I was not one of those so-called dancers who kick up their heels in the cabarets of that place and in Montparnasse, in an indecorous manner sometimes called cancan. Such women are no better than they should be. I was a petit rat of the Opéra, a ballet girl. The original company was founded by Louis the fourteenth, you know,’ she added proudly. ‘It has changed its official name so often and changed theatres almost as often, but it has always been known as the Opéra; and I am proud of having been a member, even a humble one, of its ballet company. Later, when I grew taller and heavier, I lost my place in the company. I came to England and was a member of the corps de ballet of several theatres here. That is where I learned my English. But a dancer’s working life is short, monsieur. I had been prudent and saved my money. I returned to France and was able to set up my lodging house.’
‘Mr Jenkins,’ I said calmly, ‘thought you had little command of the language.’
That checked her, but only for a moment. ‘Mr Jenkins’, she said drily, ‘is not an intelligent man. The fact that I spoke good English probably never occurred to him. He insisted on addressing me in his appalling French. Where he learned that, I have no idea, although from the words he used I suspect it was in dockside bars.’
‘You do not deny, then, madame, that you know of whom I’m speaking? That you engaged Mr Jenkins to look for your husband?’
‘No, Inspector, I do not deny it.’
‘You did not mention this yesterday.’
‘Yesterday we did not go into great detail of my search here, Inspector. Had you asked me, I should have given the same reply. Why should I deny I engaged Mr Jenkins?’
‘How did you come to know of his detective agency?’
She shrugged. ‘There is a little board by the hotel reception desk, on which people leave messages. His card was pinned there. I thought it worth trying. But he turned out to be a rogue.’
‘A rogue who found your husband, nevertheless . . .’ I pointed out.
Her eyes flashed. ‘No, Inspector, he did not! If he had done so, I should not have gone to Mr Jonathan Tapley in my desperation. As for Jenkins, pah!’ She threw up her hands. ‘I did not like the look of the man, or of his office, when I called there. However, having taken the trouble to seek him out, I explained I was looking for someone of the name of Thomas Tapley. I even gave him a photograph of my husband. A photograph he has failed to return, by the way. He asked for some money in advance, to pay for his expenses. I paid him a good amount. When I called back later to find out if he had made progress, he had the impudence, and the stupidity, to ask for more. I refused. I could see he was little more than a confidence trickster. I demanded my original money back. He said it was impossible. I demanded my photograph. He said he did not have it in his office. I told him his agency was no longer employed by me and he should send my photograph of Thomas to me at this hotel. He has not done so.’
‘Mr Jenkins’, I said, ‘is dead.’
She was silent for a moment. ‘How did he die?’
‘He was murdered.’
‘Ah . . .’ Another silence. Then she said, ‘Well, I am not surprised to hear it. Such a man would have enemies, other people he has tricked, no doubt!’
We sat looking at one another for a moment or two. She was a little flushed from indignation, or some other emotion. Questions chased one another pell-mell through my mind. She claimed to have been a dancer. Had she actually been an actress? Had her theatrical background inspired her to set the stage for her appearance when I waited in the hall? Was she possibly speaking the truth about Jenkins? I could easily imagine that Jenkins, from Lizzie’s description of the man, had been something of a trickster. He might also have been a genuine private detective, but it would have been in his interest to string out his investigations for as long as possible, demanding continuing sums of money from his clients. The lady’s description of Jenkins’s attempts to speak French was amusing. It also had the ring of truth to it. Could he really have thought this capable woman spoke almost no English? But then, when she had called on him, she had had a companion with her. Had the unknown man done the talking? How I wished we could interview Jenkins again . . . or that someone had been able to interview him before his death. Lizzie had meant well, but she had delayed too long in reporting his existence.
‘Madame,’ I began again, ‘I understand, from a witness, that when you first called on Mr Jenkins, you were accompanied by a gentleman.’
‘What witness?’ she demanded.
‘A lady living upstairs in the building. Jenkins had an arrangement with her to bring down a tea tray when he saw new clients.’
‘I do not remember such a woman. She claims she saw me?’
Well, no, Miss Poole did not claim that, only that she’d seen a back view of a lady and a hat with lavender rosebuds on it. There were probably other hats with such decoration. Miss Poole had not heard the lady speak.
I decided not to answer Victorine’s question. It is the prerogative of the investigating officer that he asks, but does not answer, questions.
‘You were not accompanied? You have told us, I know, that you are alone in London.’
‘I am alone!’ she snapped. ‘But, as it happened, an old friend accompanied me on the journey across the Channel. I was nervous, you understand, at returning to this country after a number of years. Also I am a poor sailor. The gentleman, an old friend, agreed to come with me and see me settled here in London. He did also come with me to see Jenkins. But when Jenkins disappointed me, my friend could not remain here any longer. He had business in Paris to attend to. He returned to France. He suggested I return, too. But I explained to him I was now resolved to seek out Mr Jonathan Tapley, and would remain for as long as my finances allowed. He accepted that, but begged me not to waste more money on people such as Jenkins.’
‘And the name of this gentleman?’
Again, the slightest hesitation. ‘Hector Mas, I have known him many years. He knew Thomas, too. They were friends. Monsieur Mas was anxious to help me locate my husband.’
At that moment a gong sounded outside in the hall. She glanced in its direction.
‘I think I shall try to eat some soup. The boiled meat puddings they serve here are disgusting beyond description.’ Again the silk crêpe rustled and the scent of violets wafted by my nostrils.
Clearly, this conversation was at an end for now. I also stood up.
‘Thank you for your time, madame. We shall speak again. You won’t, I hope, leave this address? If you do, let Scotland Yard know. But, I beg of you, please don’t return to France for the time being.’
‘I must stay here,’ she said. ‘I now have some legal matters to attend to. My husband left no will. Also, I have learned I have a stepdaughter.’
‘Your husband never mentioned his daughter?’
She shook her head. ‘Never. I now understand he gave her away when she was an infant, to his cousin and his wife. They consider her their daughter. Thomas no longer had any responsibility for her and my belief is that he, too, considered her their daughter, rather than his.’ She nodded. ‘I shall make her acquaintance this afternoon, and that of Mrs Maria Tapley.’
‘You will?’ I exclaimed, unprepared for this development.
‘Oh, yes. They are coming here to meet me.’
Oh, how I wished I could be a fly on the wall of this dingy parlour when that encounter took place later in the day!
On my way out, I paused by the reception desk. There was indeed a corkboard fixed to the wall with scraps of paper or card pinned to it. A glance at them s
howed them to be targeted at visitors to the capital, mostly cheaply printed bills advertising Turkish baths, cigar divans, theatres and the like. There was even . . . ah, yes, there it was, a small card advertising the services of Horatio Jenkins, private enquiry agent.
I took it down and showed it to the formidable, bombazine-clad female who guarded admission to the hotel. ‘Did you see who placed this here, and when?’
She stared at it as if it might communicate some plague. ‘I have no idea. The notices change continually. I could ask the page-boy. But I doubt he’d remember. Do you wish to speak to the boy?’ She struck a bell on the counter.
A figure appeared in an ill-fitting page’s uniform.
‘This gentleman has a question for you,’ said the woman, and left me with the page.
He was an unprepossessing youth, stunted in build, and with crooked teeth and a knowing look. ‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘You’re a rozzer, I’d bet my brass buttons on it.’
‘Your brass buttons are perfectly safe. This card, advertising the detective agency, when was it pinned on that board?’ I held it under his nose.
‘What’s it worth?’ asked the youth.
‘Let me explain something to you,’ I replied. ‘I am indeed an officer of the law. I am making some enquiries and if you withhold information, you will be in trouble.’
‘I ain’t got any information!’ said the page in disgust. ‘What information am I likely to have, stuck here? I’m run off my feet, I am. She’s banging that ruddy bell every five minutes. There’s someone wanting their luggage carried upstairs, or they want it carried down again. There’s someone wanting me to run out and find a cab and another one wanting me to run half a mile with a message. If they give me a shilling I’m lucky. She’s got me cleaning all their shoes, as well, because I’m boot boy, too, for my sins. I haven’t got time to watch that corkboard. People come in and pin up their notices all the time. When it gets too full, she tells me to take ’em all down and chuck ’em on the fire. I don’t read ’em. She might.’
‘Then let me ask you another question,’ I said. ‘The French lady who is a guest here . . .’
‘Oh, her,’ said the page.
‘Did she arrive alone?’
‘Yus,’ said the page confidently. ‘I carried her bags, all of them, to the top floor and she only gave me sixpence. Oh, yes, I remember her arriving. When she goes, she’ll want me to carry them all down again, I don’t doubt!’
‘There was no gentleman, possibly a Frenchman, with her?’
He squinted at me. ‘There was a fellow in the cab with her, the cab she arrived in, but he never got out, never gave a hand with the bags or nothing. She got out, the cabbie got down from his perch and whistled to me. I went out and the cabbie and me, we dragged out all the bags. I was given the lot to carry and the cab rattled off with the other fare still in it. I never heard the fellow inside speak, never got a proper look at him. There’s not much light inside a four-wheeler and he had his hand up, sort of between his face and me. He might or might not have been a foreigner. He might have been the emperor of Russia. He might have had no legs. But it’s no use asking me about him.’
So, I thought, Hector Mas, if the man in the cab had been Mas, who had travelled to England with Guillaume, had not lodged in the same hotel. Out of the same discretion that kept him veiled in the darkness of the cab when she arrived? Or for some other reason?’
I gave the page a shilling in case I needed to talk to him again. He might prove a useful spy.
‘You want me to find out about that card?’ asked the page, encouraged by my largesse. ‘I could go round the other hotels hereabouts and see if they got one.’
‘No matter,’ I said. ‘It is no use now. The agency it advertises is no longer in existence.’
‘What do you think, then, Ross?’ asked Dunn when I returned to the Yard.
‘That she is either very plausible or telling the truth. Very likely, it is a mixture of the two. She tells me – us – nothing until she has to. Thus, she did not volunteer the information that she had used Jenkins’s agency. She did not admit at first she had been accompanied by a man when she called there. She had forgotten the tea tray and would not, anyway, have seen Miss Poole, who was standing behind her in the doorway, and did not come into the room. She had to decide quickly whether to continue to deny a man had accompanied her, or admit he’d existed. Not knowing if Miss Poole got more of a look at her than we know she did – or if I could produce another witness – Guillaume decided to admit it.’
‘And the reason for her reticence?’ asked Dunn, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the desktop.
I frowned and picked my words carefully. ‘I would say, sir, that she has spent her life in a rather – shady – world. It is not in her nature to trust anyone or confide in strangers, even the police. Perhaps especially the police. Ballet girls, generally, are besieged by stage-door admirers, whose intentions are both dishonourable and quite apparent. As Guillaume said, the girls’ dancing lives are short. When they stop being dancers, if they have not found a husband or a generous protector, they very often have little choice but to become courtesans. Victorine Guillaume was no innocent, but had a hard business head on her shoulders. She may well have saved her money – or earned it in a way she does not now care to acknowledge. At any rate, she had enough to buy and set up her lodging house. Her marriage to Tapley was probably to acquire the respectable status of married woman, nothing more. I don’t think, with her theatrical background, she failed to recognise his sexual persuasion. Thomas Tapley had a reputation for sweet-talking older ladies into taking care of him . . . but no one would bamboozle Victorine Guillaume so easily. So, there was something else she hoped to get out of the marriage. By the way, I fancy she wears a wig, sir.’
‘What?’ asked Dunn, startled.
‘Well, sir, her hair is very elaborately dressed and it looked today exactly the same as it did yesterday, although conceivably she may have called a hairdresser to the hotel. She could, if necessary, change her appearance quite easily, if she does wear a wig. Both Major Griffiths and Miss Poole described a woman with deep red hair. We have seen one with jet-black tresses. That is not to say they are not one and the same.’
‘We shall have to keep an eye on her,’ said Dunn grimly. ‘In case she slips out of the country.’
‘The French police should be able to find her, if she did. She wouldn’t simply abandon her lodging house in Montmartre, unless she became desperate to disappear. I am more than a little interested in this fellow, Hector Mas. He wanted no one at the hotel to see him. Why was he so keen to stay out of sight? Guillaume tells us he has returned to France. I wonder, sir, if it is worth contacting the French police and asking if they know of him?’
‘I’ll get on to it,’ Dunn promised.
‘In the meantime, the lady is making claims on Thomas Tapley’s estate. Until that is settled, she won’t go away, sir.’
Later that evening Lizzie listened to all this in silence, paying close attention. After I’d finished speaking, she sat in thought for a moment or two before speaking.
‘So Maria Tapley took Flora to meet this newly discovered stepmother this afternoon? I’m surprised she allowed Flora to go anywhere near her.’
‘The Tapleys could hardly prevent her meeting the woman at some stage,’ I pointed out. ‘Better for it to be at once, so that Flora is prepared when the matter of the inheritance comes to court, if it does. She’d meet her then. She should know what she’s up against. Perhaps it was Flora’s own wish to meet the woman her father married in France?’
Lizzie thought that over and agreed. Her next question surprised me. ‘You say Victorine was in deep mourning? Top to toe? Even a widow’s cap?’
‘To the last detail and all good quality – to my eye. Black silk crêpe, even little lace mittens.’
Lizzie leaned towards me, her face animated. ‘Where did she get it all?’
‘What?’
‘The mourn
ing ensemble, where and when did she acquire it?’
I confess I didn’t at first see where this question was going and replied, ‘I suppose, as a widow, it is quite proper she should dress that way.’
‘Yes, yes!’ said Lizzie impatiently. ‘But one doesn’t acquire such a complete set of widow’s weeds overnight! Victorine did not know until quite late yesterday, when she met Jonathan and was taken to the undertaker’s to see her husband’s body, that she was a widow, or so she says. She had hoped to find Thomas alive, if mentally muddled. Did she rush straight out from the undertaker’s to a dress shop, not pausing even to shed a tear?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘She came to Scotland Yard to surprise Dunn and me. She wore grey, a hussar jacket, and that hat you spoke of, with the lavender roses and ribbons.’
‘Just so. She had no time to go shopping. She must have sailed from France to England with a travelling box or chest.’
‘The hotel page told me she arrived with several bags.’
Lizzie nodded. ‘So, did she pack this complete set of black clothes, just against the possibility that she might find out that he’d died here? If she thought he was alive, it seems unnecessary. It took up space and added to the weight of her luggage. It suggests to me she thought there would be a very good chance he would be dead, and she did not want the expense of equipping herself with black crêpe clothing here. But why should he have died? He had recovered physically from his bout of fever. At the very least, it seems very pessimistic of her to have filled her boxes with clothing she might not need.’
‘Unless she was confident she would need it,’ I said thoughtfully.
Lizzie beamed at me. ‘Yesterday she wore grey. Grey is quite sombre enough a colour to wear for a week, until she had acquired some black clothes. If she’d done that, the puzzle of her sudden appearance in full mourning wouldn’t have arisen. But this afternoon Maria Tapley and Flora were to call on her for the first time. Victorine wanted to make a good impression and set the stage. She could not resist taking out the black outfit she had brought with her and wearing it.’