A Matter of Love and Death: a historical mystery you don't want to miss

by Caron Albright

  ‘I solely give work to people who depend on the income, which Pauline does, if my information is correct.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Frances thought of the dingy house she’d visited and shuddered.

  He picked up a pebble and flicked it across the water. The stone bounced twice, sending out two sets of ripples that spread until Frances could no longer tell them apart.

  ‘Why did you walk me home when we first met?’ The question had niggled on her mind for days, but she hadn’t come up with a satisfactory explanation thus far. Annoyingly enough, it wasn’t for her charms, she admitted to herself. That much was obvious for anyone who’d seen Dolores.

  Jack lowered his eyelids until they half-covered his eyes. ‘It was refreshing for once to meet a girl whose beauty owes nothing to art and everything to nature; you don’t see a lot of real people in my business; and I needed bread.’

  ‘You’ve got a housekeeper, so that argument doesn’t work, and I’m not beautiful.’ She sighed. ‘Not like Dolores. She is – what do men say? She’s an eyeful.’

  ‘An eyeful,’ Jack said, ‘and an earful, and most of all, a handful. But,’ he flung another pebble, ‘so are you. You’re way too trusting.’

  ‘I’m not. I told you I can look after myself.’

  He turned around, facing her. ‘No, you can’t. Remember when we met on a Friday? That’s payday for most people, and there you were, striding along, swinging your little bag for every half-baked crook to grab.’

  She opened her mouth to protest.

  Jack dug his thumbs into his vest pockets. ‘I followed you for at least twenty yards, and you didn’t notice. You also didn’t notice the rat-face who appeared out of an alleyway, making straight for you.’

  Something was wrong with her voice, reducing her words to a whisper. ‘You’re making that up, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m not saying he was after your bag, Frances, I’m merely saying he might’ve been. Desperate times create desperate folks.’

  She suddenly felt faint.

  ‘Frances?’ He took her by the shoulders. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’ He bent down to pick up a sizable chunk of rock. ‘Stick that in your bag on paydays, or something similar – solid, like a half brick, and you can roundhouse any miscreant. Here, let me show you.’

  He wrapped the rock in a handkerchief, took her bag, and put the rock inside. Grasping the handle, he swung the bag in a circle before he handed it back to her. ‘Your turn,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to grab your bag, and you lash out.’

  She took a step back. ‘I might hurt you.’

  He still smiled at her when his arm shot out. Frances ducked and swung her bag. She half expected to feel it collide with Jack’s arm, breaking bones. That rock must have weighed two pounds at least.

  He sprang back, the bag missing him by an inch, before he attacked again.

  Three more rounds, and her hand trembled. ‘Enough?’ she asked, sinking on to the grass.

  Jack settled next to her. He folded his arms around his legs.

  Frances snapped her bag open to inspect its contents. The rock was still tightly wrapped into the handkerchief. The small coin purse she carried and her enamelled powder compact seemed undamaged, as did the artificial silk lining of the bag.

  ‘Can I have my handkerchief back?’ he asked.

  ‘And your rock.’

  ‘Keep it,’ Jack said. ‘Unless you exclusively care for real shiners. Mind you, if you did, you’d need more than a half brick to prevent the bad coves from sticking you up.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Very funny.’ Frances said, imitating the menacing growl of the villain in the picture they’d seen. ‘Well, I’m not that kind of dame.’

  ‘I’m not joking.’

  She pulled her skirt over her knees and hugged them tightly. ‘Then stop talking like a gangster in the pictures.’

  ‘Was I? I didn’t realise.’ His lips twitched. ‘One of the hazards of running a night club, I reckon. Some of the punters rub off if one isn’t careful.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘You allow gangsters into the Top Note?’

  ‘Not the heavy talent, if that’s what you mean.’ He gave her a quick glance as if to gauge her reaction. ‘And I’ve got a clean skin myself. Talk to Phil; he’ll have made enquiries about his new mates already if he’s worth his pay. Ask him if I’ve ever taken anyone lakeside.’

  The words rang in her ears. Her chest tightened. She could hardly breathe.

  He leant back on his elbows, watching Frances under his lashes. ‘Disappointed in me? Kiddo, ask the police, it’s much better to watch the enemy from within than having them run loose where you can’t see them, and like I said, the big fish meet elsewhere.’

  He gave her a closer look. ‘You’re shivering. Does my life repulse you that much? Come on, then. I’ll take you home to your mum and Uncle Sal, and I’ll drop from your sight.’

  He made as if to get up. She grabbed his arm to hold him back. ‘It’s not that,’ she said. ‘It’s something that you said.’ She took a shilling out of her purse and flipped it over on her hand. Heads, she’d confide in Jack, tails, she’d keep quiet. She looked at the coin. Heads.

  She ran her tongue over her dry lips. ‘You break the law, right?’

  ‘When I have to.’

  ‘But you’re still a good man.’ She touched his sleeve. ‘So, hypothetically, what would you do if you knew that something bad might be planned but you can’t tell anyone?’

  ‘That depends. How bad is the bad thing, and why do I have to keep my mouth closed?’

  ‘It’s murder,’ Frances said, her voice sounding distant in her ears. ‘A man might be killed and I can’t do anything to save him.’ Her lower lip trembled.

  ‘Oh, kiddo.’ Jack pulled her close to him and hugged her to his chest. He smelt of spicy after-shave, and comfort. Her pulse slowed down a bit. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, as if calming a child suffering from a nightmare. ‘I’m here; we’ll take care of it.’

  She pressed her head against the rough fabric of his jacket, unwilling to let go. ‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘You believe me, don’t you?’

  ‘Tell me what’s going on,’ he said.

  ‘I heard them talk about it, on the phone.’ The words came faltering at first, but then they tumbled out, as if they gained a momentum of their own. Frances didn’t know if anything she said made sense at all, but she didn’t care. She told Jack everything, why she’d listened in on that phone call, and how she’d been unable to shake off the sense of dread.

  Her voice began to shake. ‘I wanted to believe it’s a hoax,’ she said, clinging to Jack’s sleeve. ‘Or maybe that I heard wrong because there was so much crackle and other noise.’ She swallowed. ‘But it didn’t sound like it, and when you started talking about sticking up someone or taking him lakeside, I sort of knew that it’s for real.’

  ‘We’ll tell Phil about Croaky and his mate.’

  ‘No.’ She struggled to free herself. ‘Don’t you think I haven’t thought about it? We can’t. He’s the police. I’d lose my job for breaking confidentiality, and then how shall I pay the mortgage and the other bills?’ She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘It wouldn’t do any good anyway, because I don’t know who the victim is.’

  ‘Then we’ll investigate ourselves,’ Jack said. ‘Or rather, I will. And I’ll think of something to pass on that information that leaves you out of it.’

  He pulled her off the grass. ‘Do you want me to take you out for dinner, or do you want to go home?’

  She hesitated.

  He stroked her hair. ‘How about we get some sandwiches and eat them here, and then I’ll take you home.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, leaning against him for the briefest moment. He pressed her shoulder, unsettling her pulse again. ‘Please, Jack.’

  ∞∞∞∞

  Frances’ nerves still twitched when Jack took her home. ‘Would you care to come inside and say hello to everyone?’ she asked, not wanting to let him go j
ust yet. She felt safe when he was around; safe, and oddly excited at the same time.

  His thumb grazed her cheek. ‘Anything to make you happy.’

  Maggie’s face lit up as Frances ushered Jack into the kitchen.

  ‘You’re in time for a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘The kettle’s already on.’ She put the pillowcase she was darning into the sewing basket sitting on the floor.

  ‘Do you drink tea at all, Jack, or would you prefer coffee?’ Maggie hesitated. ‘Otherwise we might have a drop of brandy left.’

  ‘Tea is fine,’ Jack said, handing Frances his hat and jacket. ‘Uncle Sal and Phil aren’t home yet?’

  ‘I didn’t expect them to be.’ Maggie poured a small amount of water into the teapot, rinsed it and refilled it with boiling water after she’d spooned in tea-leaves from a China caddy. ‘Or should I?’

  He settled down on to a kitchen chair, crossing his ankles. ‘No reason at all,’ he said. ‘I’m glad Uncle Sal and Phil are sacrificing their time.’

  Maggie’s lips twitched. ‘From what I’ve seen of Miss Bardon, they wouldn’t consider it a sacrifice.’

  Frances set three cups with a wildflower pattern on the table. The sugar bowl didn’t match, but it still looked pretty.

  ‘Who was Simon Grant?’ she asked as she poured the tea. Jack spooned sugar into the amber brew.

  ‘Dolores’ husband,’ he said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘They got married on Easter Sunday 1916, with special permission from her father because she was under age.’ Jack swirled his tea in the cup to dissolve the sugar. ‘We shipped out to France a week after that. She never saw him again.’

  Maggie folded her hands around her cup. ‘Oh, the poor girl.’

  ‘I was best man at the wedding,’ Jack said. ‘It took her years to get over it, but she’s coped. It’s only sometimes that it gets to her this bad; times like Easter, and when she drives around town and sees all those legless or armless men that are begging or hawking on the streets. At least they came home.’

  ‘But she’s got you,’ Frances said before she could help it. She ought to be ashamed of herself, for envying Dolores.

  ‘I promised Simon I’d take care of Dolores. We all did. But sometimes that isn’t enough.’ He took a long sip. ‘You can imagine how glad I was when Phil walked in.’

  ‘You weren’t with Simon when – it happened?’

  Jack touched his shoulder. ‘I got winged a couple of months earlier, not too bad, but infection set in and they sent me to a British hospital. I recovered in time to be demobbed together with Phil, a couple of weeks after the rest of my mates. That’s how we met, although we didn’t mingle much onboard the ship. I wasn’t overmuch in the mood for company.’

  Maggie touched his hand. ‘I see. I hope Phil will cheer the poor girl up.’

  ‘But you said all the men in your night club were in the army together,’ Frances said, her mind working on something that had been puzzling her for days. ‘Surely they must have been able to tell her everything she wants to hear about her husband?’

  Maggie shook her head at her daughter. ‘That’s not the same. To them she’ll always be Simon’s widow, but for Phil she’s a beautiful woman in her own right. She simply happens to have been married to a man he met who died a long time ago.’

  Jack pushed his chair back a little, allowing more space for his legs.

  ‘Would it be too much of a liberty to ask for a refill?’ His teeth gleamed as he smiled at Maggie. Jack looked perfectly at home in their kitchen, Frances thought, and the way he exchanged glances with her mum hinted at something like mutual understanding or – her eyes narrowed – shared amusement, the way you enjoyed the antics of a puppy.

  The legs of her chair scraped over the wooden floor as she got up, hiding a yawn.

  Jack treated her to another smile. ‘I should be taking myself off,’ he said. ‘The club will be hopping tonight, and I can’t neglect my duties.’

  She took the empty cups and placed them on top of the still dirty crockery in the sink. ‘I’ll do the dishes,’ she said. ‘You get a rest, Mum, and I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘I can spare enough time to help, and I don’t want to hear a word of protest.’ Jack undid his cufflinks to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. Faint white lines crisscrossed his skin, as if he’d once caught his underarm on barbed wire.

  A warmth started to spread inside her as Frances opened the tap to fill the sink and shook some soap flakes from a tin.

  Her mother hesitated.

  ‘Off you go, Mum. I’ll see Jack out as soon as we’re done here.’

  ∞∞∞∞

  She wiped the plate with a cloth, rinsed it off again and handed it to Jack. ‘The drying rack is on the top shelf, unless you merely want to stand around with that tea towel, looking domesticated.’

  ‘What I did want was to remind you to write down every scrap of information you remember,’ he said. ‘And to give your mother a break. She looked all in.’

  ‘No wonder,’ she said. ‘I wish she wouldn’t feel obliged to go and sit with everyone who’s ill or dying or feeling plain lonely.’

  He reached for the last plate. ‘I could imagine it’s more the theft that is bothering her.’

  She lifted a sudsy finger to rub her nose. ‘I’d almost forgotten about that.’

  ‘Small wonder.’ He dabbed her nose with the tea-towel. ‘Dry again.’ The dishes done, Jack gave Frances a reassuring smile as she followed him to the door.

  ‘Don’t get yourself all worked up,’ he said. ‘It’ll all come right.’

  A tear of relief trickled down her cheek. She wasn’t alone any more.

  13

  At breakfast, Uncle Sal greeted Frances, hollow-eyed but chirpy. Phil managed a weak nod. Judging by the greyish tint of his skin and the haste in which he downed his coffee, it had been a long night.

  She sat down and filled her cup. ‘It looks like you had a bonzer time,’ she said to Uncle Sal. ‘I didn’t even hear you come home.’

  Uncle Sal beamed at her. ‘I didn’t mean to stay out until the wee hours, love, so I’m glad my plodding upstairs didn’t wake you.’

  His eyes grew soft. ‘Would you believe that Dolores wouldn’t let me go before she’d heard every bit about my meeting Dame Nellie Melba? What a loss her death was for the world! I’ll always cherish the night I spent with the great lady of the opera …’ he added a dramatic pause, ‘in the same hotel.’ His dark eyes twinkled, his hands punctuated every word with gestures that grew larger by the minute, and Frances had to rescue the toast rack from being flung off the table. Uncle Sal was restored to his former self.

  ‘And what did you think she said then?’

  She blinked. Uncle Sal had lost her about halfway through the anecdote. Who did he refer to? Dame Nellie? Dolores? Someone else?

  ‘Well,’ she said, playing for time. ‘What did she say, Uncle Sal?’

  She placed a second piece of toast on her plate and leant forward, the very picture of eager anticipation.

  ‘She said …’ Uncle Sal lowered his voice for the punch line, ‘Dame Nellie said to me, “this is not a concert tour, this is a revolving door,” because she kept forever saying farewell and hello at the same time.’

  ‘Amazing.’ She shook her head, at a loss for what else to say.

  ‘Too right. I wish you’d been there last night. Ah well, there’s always another day. And another piece of toast with jam, I hope.’

  She set the toast rack and the jam dish down in front of him.

  ‘You must eat something, Phil,’ the old man said, eyeing his silent companion.

  Phil looked down on his plate. A half-eaten triangle of dry toast sat there next to a mound of eggshell.

  ‘I’m full,’ he said. ‘You told me to eat your boiled egg as well as mine.’

  ‘I did that? I don’t even remember. That’s what comes from having your mind on other things.’ Uncle Sal dabbed his lips before he folded his napkin. He rubbed his chin t
o feel the greyish stubble. ‘You take it easy here, Phil. You’ve got plenty of time for your beauty routine later.’ He whistled as he limped off to the bathroom.

  Frances recognised the melody as one she’d danced to with him at the Top Note. She sang along under her breath. ‘Keep on the sunny side …’

  ∞∞∞∞

  Easter Sunday had always held a special place in Frances’ family. Her granny Lowry used to tie dried flowers and leaves on to eggs and steep them in tea or beetroot juice or soaked onion skins to create the most delicate patterns.

  Frances and Rob were allowed all over the garden, searching for the eggs before they had the biggest, most sumptuous Easter breakfast ever, with more dishes than the king, or so she thought back then. There was always chocolate and home-made ice cream Frances had helped churn the day before.

  Granny Lowry had died right after the war, but the old wooden churn was still in use. Frances and Maggie had spent Saturday morning cranking the handle until eggs, cream, milk, sugar, and a jar of plum preserve came together in mouth-watering richness.

  The ice cream would be eaten later, after church and a light lunch. There might be guests to share it with. Maggie had asked Uncle Sal to invite Dolores and Jack, to return their hospitality.

  Frances’ smile waned at the thought of how the singer would be feeling on Easter Sunday. How awful to wave your new husband good-bye after a few days of bliss, pray for years for his safe return, and then lose him a few weeks before the guns went silent. There was no resurrection for her Simon and the millions of other casualties of the war.

  Her thoughts trailed off. Easter was halfway over, and she sat here like a dummy, relying on Jack to help another man in danger. She should have confided in him earlier. Time was getting so short. Icy fingers crawled across her spine. She stared at the wall until her vision went blurry and Maggie called at her to get ready for church.

  ∞∞∞∞