by L. A. Nisula
Constable Edwards nodded and hurried out. The rest of the staff started hunting up their coats.
Miss Kleinman turned to me. “Miss Pengear, may I have a word?”
I glanced at Inspector Wainwright and considered asking if he wanted to interview me, but he didn’t seem in the mood to be teased. I was beginning to think he was going to avoid questioning me all together when he spoke without looking up from his notes, “I think it would be easiest all around if, in addition to the descriptions, you type up an account of what you saw when you arrived. You have been questioned often enough that I think you know what is required.”
So I wouldn’t have to talk to him. “Of course. I'll bring it with me in the morning.” I followed Miss Kleinman into the back of the lounge. I was half-afraid that she thought I was involved, half-worried that she was going to ask me to look out for someone in the investigation. It was neither.
“I’m sure you can understand that we want the paperwork for the insurance finished as soon as possible.”
“Of course.”
“Would it be possible for you to come tomorrow for the full day? I’ll pull someone off the floor to act as the third witness. I think it will still take a couple of days to finish, but I’d be more comfortable...”
“Of course. I don’t have anything pressing lined up at the moment.”
“Thank you. I think we can arrange a bonus for the inconvenience.”
“That’s very generous.” It wasn’t inconvenient, but I wasn’t silly enough to say the bonus wasn’t necessary. I debated whether now was the time to ask the question that had been nagging me. “Are you going to insure the Heart of Night.”
“Of course I want to, but my brother is still being stubborn. I think he intends to fight me on it until Lady Suffolk takes it back with her.” She shrugged. “But that isn’t your problem. I will include payment for the inspector’s copies of the descriptions as well. Just add your normal cost per word or page or however you do it. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I hunted up my coat and recovered my typewriter, then left Kleinman and Co., prepared to brave the Underground with everyone else.
As I made my way towards the Underground station, I saw a short woman of about fifty come out of the shop two doors down. A broad-shouldered young man in his twenties followed her out carrying a bucket and a mop. She paused to lock the door then continued towards Kleinman and Company. That had to be the charwoman, Mrs. Donovan. I started to follow.
When they were in sight of the alley, the young man stopped suddenly. I suspected he’d seen Constable Kittering outside. When he handed Mrs. Donovan the bucket and mop, I was certain. I got close enough to hear him say something about mates and pubs and the Green Horseman, then she patted his cheek, took the mop and continued on her way while he made for the Underground. I pulled off my gloves and shoved them into my handbag, hoping Inspector Wainwright wouldn’t have noticed I was wearing them when I left then turned and went back to the shop.
I arrived at the employee entrance of Kleinmans' in time to see Inspector Wainwright facing a barrage of words from Mrs. Donovan.
“A robbery? Here? But they’re so careful on their security. And they have that new machine in back. Always think it’s going to snap my fingers off, although it never has yet.”
Inspector Wainwright was trying to herd her into the office, but Mrs. Donovan leaned her mop against his arm and started for the supply cupboard. He stuck the mop against the wall, where it promptly fell to the ground. “Madam, I will need to question you...”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing now? I have five shops on this block still to do, so don’t step on the newly cleaned floors while you talk.”
“Madam, I– What are you doing here?”
I smiled. “Forgot my gloves.”
Inspector Wainwright’s gaze went directly to my hands. I could tell he was trying to remember for certain if I’d had my gloves when I left or not, but Mrs. Donovan distracted him by starting to fill her bucket at the tap by the door.
“Madam, there has been a robbery...”
“That I know nothing about. Now move so I can get my mop.” Mrs. Donovan grabbed her mop and strode down the hallway, spilling water as she went. As she passed me, I noticed her hand was shaking. So it was bravado, not courage.
I gave Inspector Wainwright my sweetest smile. “It seems Mrs. Donovan is a very busy woman with a tight schedule. If you don’t want to question her while she cleans, perhaps you could help her with her work, and then there would be plenty of time for questions afterwards.”
Mrs. Donovan chuckled.
Inspector Wainwright looked ready to tell me what he thought of my suggestion when Miss Kleinman came through from the sales floor. “Miss Pengear. Did you forget something?”
“My gloves.”
“I thought I saw some in the lounge. Were they yours?”
What a lucky coincidence, or she wasn’t quite as distracted as she seemed. “I’ll check. Thanks.”
I left the lounge door open so I could hear what was going on across the hall. Inspector Wainwright stood in the office door as he questioned Mrs. Donovan. “You come here every evening?”
“That’s right, except Sundays.”
“And you have a key to that door.”
“That’s right.”
“Have you loaned it to anyone?”
“No, never. Wouldn’t keep a job here long if I did.”
“Where were you last night?”
“There was a dance for the young people at the church hall. After I finished here, I went to keep watch over the refreshments table and help tidy afterwards.”
“Did anyone see you there?”
“Father O’Brien, half the congregation, everyone in the mother’s circle...”
“I see. Does anyone else come with you when you’re–that is an active crime scene. Do not clean in there!” There was a good bit of scuffling and the sound of a metal bucket scraping on the floor. “Does anyone else come with you to clean?”
“Sometimes my son comes along to help me carry things, but I don’t remember that he was here last night.”
So if it could be proved he was, she wasn’t lying, just forgetful. I’d typed enough interrogations for Scotland Yard to know that meant he’d been there and she didn’t want to say. If he hadn’t, she’d have been certain of it.
Inspector Wainwright’s voice got fainter as he followed her to the sales floor. “What is his name?”
“Charlie, and don’t step on what I just washed.”
I glanced around the room as I pulled my gloves from my bag. There were none in the lounge.
“Where was he last night?”
“At the dance with me.”
“And the same people will verify it?”
“I’m sure they will.”
“Including Father O’Brien?”
“It was a dance. They were dancing. He can’t watch everyone at once.”
“Where will I find Charlie?”
“He said he was meeting friends at the pub. He’ll just tell you the same as me.”
“And where does he―Miss Pengear, are you still here?”
“Just leaving.” I held up my gloves.
Inspector Wainwright glared at me then realized Mrs. Donovan was getting away from him and went back to questioning.
Outside, I thought about what I had overheard. I knew where Charlie had gone. If it had been Inspector Burrows, I would have quietly told him the name of the pub, but if had been Inspector Burrows, he would probably have teased it out of Mrs. Donovan himself and I wouldn’t be worrying about whether or not Charlie would get a fair hearing. But if Charlie was a good suspect, I had to tell Inspector Wainwright how to find him. Unless...
I found a bookshop with a copy of the London Post Office Directory and paged through it until I found a listing for the Green Horseman. It seemed to be in a respectable part of town and almost on the way from here to Kate’s shop, so I consulted my Underground
map and set off.
It’s not really investigating, I told myself as I waited on the platform. I was just making certain I wasn’t wasting Inspector Wainwright’s time with random information. I just needed to get a look at this Charlie up close and see if he was a good suspect. If he was, I’d leave him to the mercy of Inspector Wainwright. If not... I sighed. If not, I supposed I’d have to find some way to help him.
Chapter 5
BY THE TIME I ARRIVED at the Green Horseman, I was wishing I’d left my typewriter at Kleinman and Company instead of lugging it around town. The pub was half empty when I entered. I found a barmaid who didn’t look busy and asked if she knew Charlie Donovan.
“He owe you money or break your heart?”
“It’s about his mother, indirectly.”
“He’s done both to her. Table in the corner. His mates aren’t here yet, so you should be safe enough. Yell if you need help, or hit him with whatever that is you’re carrying. Looks like it could do some damage.”
I grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I crossed the pub and approached Charlie’s table. I put my typewriter case down with a satisfyingly solid thunk then sat across from him. “Charlie Donovan?”
“Who’s asking?”
“I work at Kleinman and Company, where right now your mother is being questioned by the police.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Why indeed.” I stared at him until he said,
“Really, why?”
“There was some trouble; they’re trying to find out who caused it.”
“Wasn’t her, and it wasn’t me.”
“Then why did you leave when you saw the constable outside?”
“I’ve got a healthy respect for the law. Give them a wide berth whenever I can.” When I didn’t say anything, he asked, “What would they have asked me?”
“For starters, where you were last night.” That didn’t seem to be giving too much away. He would have put together the presence of the police with whatever his mother would tell him and reach the conclusion that there’d been a robbery last night quickly enough himself.
“Family dinner with Mum.”
I didn’t tell him that didn’t fit with his mother’s story. “And after?”
“What’s this about?”
“The events at Kleinman and Company. I’d hate to see your mother accused of anything she didn’t do.”
“I didn’t steal a thing from that place. I just tagged along to help Mum. Why doesn’t anyone ever believe me?”
I kept staring at him.
“You think I’d want Mum to lose her job? Then I’d have to get―a better one. I’d have to get a better one.”
That was closer to something I could believe, particularly if he left “a better” out of the last sentence.
When I didn’t answer, he went on, “Besides, if I was going to nick something, and I wasn’t, mind you, I wouldn’t have hit the jewelry store. They have real security. I’m not an idiot. I would have dipped into the petty cash box at the estate agents two doors down. I had a mate who worked there, and the whole lot of them are crooks. Do you know what they say to get someone to take a flat? And not just the normal view of Buckingham Palace if you lean out the window and hold on with your toes either. If anything went missing, they’d just think it was one of the others there.”
That was believable, especially if I read between the denials. I was tempted to go to the estate agents and see if anything had been taken, but if his story was as true as I suspected, they’d just deny it.
“You believe me, right?”
“That last story does have the ring of truth to it.”
He grinned. “Knew you were smart enough to see the truth.”
Not that the truth was particularly helpful to him here; he didn’t rob Kleinmans' because he had an easier target picked out. “Where were you last night after your mother finished work?”
“At a pub with my mates.”
“And the police will be able to verify that?”
“I’m not sure.” I could tell from his tone that he was more than not sure. “Look, I can trust you, right? You just want to help Mum. My mates are not the kind of folks you can put in a witness box and have anyone believe a word of it. Not their fault at all; they’ve been ill-used by the courts and they get nervous if they have to go back, so they look a bit―dodgy.”
“But there were other people at the pub. The barman wouldn’t recognize you either?”
“Yeah, about that. You don’t want to get me in trouble, right? So I can tell you the truth. You see, there were these toffs there celebrating, and they were buying each other rounds. So my mates and I, we sort of sat in the back of the group and made like we were part of it. Then we sort of left before the barman could get to our turn to buy.”
“And no one noticed you weren’t part of the group?”
“We have had some practice in that particular maneuver. Part of it is not letting the barman see you, not if he knows you.”
“And the person serving the drinks?”
“Who’d listen to her?”
I glared at him.
“Sorry, sorry.”
“You should tell the police. They have the resources to find people who were there, people who might recognize you. Isn’t that better than having your mother in trouble?” When he didn’t respond, I asked, “What was the name of the pub?”
“Fox’s Den. But don’t tell the police. Imagine what it would do to Mum if they had us up on robbery charges for a little drink or two.”
Or ten or twenty, more likely. “It’s your neck.”
I’d hoped to scare him into answering, but all he said was, “That’s right. It is.”
I sighed and stood up. Inspector Wainwright would have to talk to him and get his alibi, if for no other reason than to rule him out and move on to better suspects. If Charlie wouldn’t tell the police where he was himself, I would have to. But I could give him a day or so to do it.
As much as I liked Charlie Donovan for a suspect, I knew Mrs. Donovan would be devastated if he were arrested. And I happened to know someone who worked at the Fox’s Den and might be up for a bit of sleuthing. But that would have to wait. I still had one more errand before going home, and I was wishing I could leave the typewriter somewhere. But a trip home would mean the shop would be closed before I got there. I picked up my typewriter and made for the Underground.
~ * ~ * ~
Kate Ferris’s shop was located in Mayfair, which meant there were no Underground stops nearby, so more lugging my typewriter around. When I arrived, Kate was assisting a girl slightly younger than me and a man I guessed was her father. They were looking at a display of tea-things surrounded by a ridiculous amount of pink tulle.
The girl held up a brass kettle with silver roses entwined on the handle. She examined the flowers, then opened it and looked inside. “I like this one, but could it be modified to serve two?”
Kate took it from her and looked inside. “Of course, Miss Babbet. You’d need a book for that. Just a moment.” Kate moved to the shelf across from them and pulled down a book that had been covered in pink paper. She noticed me on the way back and made a small jerk of her head towards the back storage room. I nodded and went through the small but well-stocked haberdashery section―which served as an excuse for young ladies whose parents were less indulgent of tinkering than Mr. Babbet appeared to be―to make my way there as unobtrusively as possible. As I paused to finger some yarns, I could hear the girl exclaiming, “Daddy, it would be such fun to show it off. Why, Miss Hillbourne and I could have tea in our room from it.”
I grabbed two skeins of a very soft lilac yarn and went to the back room.
“Well, I suppose it wouldn’t be too inappropriate.”
“Of course not, Daddy. You’re so sweet.”
“I’ll just slip into the back and get the pieces you’ll need for the modification. One moment, please.” Kate slipped around the curtain
and joined me in the back. “Hey, Cassie. Social call?”
“Not really. I might have a small consulting job for you, if you’d like it.”
Kate opened the tea kettle again and pulled out a folded sheet of ladies’ notepaper. “Tell me about it while I chaperone-proof this list.”
While Kate transferred cogs and springs from their greasy boxes to pink-paper-lined ones, I slipped the pink paper cover from the book and saw it was hiding a copy of Intermediate Vehicular Tinkering. “Intermediate?”
Kate glanced back and nodded. “She’s a regular. She and her friend Miss Hillbourne are trying to see who can come up with a variation on a steam-velocycle that can be operated while wearing a normal walking dress. Far more convenient for paying calls.”
“Sounds quite practical, actually.”
“It is if they can just figure out the steering, and the braking could be easier to access.”
“Those do seem to be important features.”
“And if either of them manage it, we’ll try to buy the plans and publish them, pseudonymously of course.”
“Of course.” The shop Kate co-owned specialized in selling tinkering items that were chaperone-proof, in other words able to convince the chaperones of Mayfair that their charges were not doing anything as un-ladylike as actual tinkering, even if a good number of them wound up with working velocycles and kitchens full of steam-driven time-savers in the end.
“Do you want anything besides the yarn while I have your account open? How about a nice window-box lift. Get you out of your bedroom window faster than the mechanical lift in the lobby. Or get someone up there, doesn’t matter.”
“You aren’t selling those to the young ladies, I hope.”
“What are they to do in case of fire, I ask you? If there are secondary uses, well, that isn’t my problem.” She wrapped a stack of gears in tissue paper and tied them with a bow.
I rolled my eyes.
“I’ll have you know Miss― Well perhaps I shouldn’t give names. Client confidentiality, you understand. Miss X has modified it so her poodle can let itself out of the window and into the back garden. Of course, the poodle does manage to find its way out of the yard and into the neighbor's rhododendrons if no one is there to supervise, but still... clever.”