Poppy immediately thought of her aunt’s accident. “Strong-arm tactics?”
“Ask your aunt. And read the file. But nothing’s been proven.”
Poppy absorbed the information.
“Are you taking notes?”
Poppy whipped out a notebook and pencil from her satchel. “Yes, sir.” She started to scribble.
“That’s just background. There’s more to it and we will get to the bottom of it, but for now the story Bert was working on is that Dorchester has just been awarded a contract to supply London hospitals with X-ray equipment. He’s in some kind of partnership with the Radium Institute in Paris.”
“Marie Curie.”
“Right on, Miz Denby. The thing is, Curie is a known feminist and it seems strange – no, let me rephrase that – downright bizarre that she would approve it.”
“Have you spoken to her?”
“We have. And she said Dorchester has come around to seeing the justice of the women’s cause. She points to his recent backing of the Sex Disqualification (Removal) Act.”
“Which my aunt probably thinks he’s faking.”
“Well, he can’t fake his vote, but his motives seem highly dubious. The contract, apparently, is worth millions.”
“Hmmm,” said Poppy. “So you want me to interview my aunt about this.”
“I do. But first I want you to go and see Dorchester himself.”
Poppy had not expected that. She took a few moments to gather her thoughts while Rollo took another slurp of his coffee.
“Er – when do you want me to go?”
“This morning. Dan will go with you. He’s already been briefed. I’ve put a list of questions in the front of the file. Nothing too in-depth – it’s well-trodden ground. Keep it sweet. Just say you’re there to clarify a few points from Bert’s notes before we go to print. I’ve also included a copy of the story you can lead him to believe we’re going to print –”
Lead him to believe? Poppy didn’t like the sound of that. She was never comfortable with deceit. Rollo must have read her thoughts.
“You’ll have to leave your Christian qualms behind, Miz Denby, if you want to make it as a journalist.” His voice softened a little as he saw her looking perturbed: “You believe in truth, Poppy. And justice. So do we. This is just a means to an end. And it’s not an outright lie. It is what we’re going to print – just not all of it.”
Poppy absorbed that for a moment and then nodded her agreement. “All right, I’ll do my best.”
“Good girl.”
“But why are you sending me? Surely there are more experienced people that could do it.” She cocked her head towards the newsroom just as the door opened and Daniel entered.
“There are,” agreed Rollo. “But none of them will get up Dorchester’s nose like you will.”
“And why’s that?” asked Poppy.
“Because you’re a woman,” said Daniel, swinging his camera case by its strap.
“And you’re Dotty Denby’s niece,” added Rollo. “Wait until the very end of the interview, then let that little gem slip and see how he reacts. If anything will knock his composure, that will. He hates women. I know he does. And you’re just the gal to bring it out of him.”
Poppy raised her eyebrows in alarm. Daniel put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. That’s why I’ll be there. He won’t do anything in front of me.”
“I hope not,” said Poppy quietly.
“Will you do it?” asked Rollo.
Poppy looked around at the “housekeeping” that awaited her if she declined. Then she thought of poor Bert, lying on a cold slab, unable to finish the story he’d started. And finally she thought of her aunt and her friends, and the untold sacrifices they had made to give young women like her a chance to follow their dreams.
She looked straight into Rollo’s bloodshot eyes and nodded decisively. “I will.”
CHAPTER 9
Poppy had never been in the sidecar of a motorcycle before; it was very exciting. Daniel helped her put on the leather helmet and button it under her chin. He paused for a moment to twirl his finger in one of her curls and push it under the leather. Poppy’s eyes widened at the familiarity; he apologized with the look of a chastised puppy, making Poppy laugh.
Daniel had parked the motorcycle in the alleyway behind the Daily Globe building, through the double doors of the basement where delivery vans backed up to receive each day’s edition. Poppy knew that today’s edition would have an obituary on page 3, written by Rollo last night and typeset himself just before midnight after he had called “stop press” on the printers. Poor Bert Isaacs. She’d barely known the man, but she felt a sudden fondness for him, and, as she gripped the file of research on Dorchester, a sense of responsibility that she was taking on his mantle, at least temporarily, and helping to finish the story he had started.
The question of whether or not his death was an accident was still to be pursued. Daniel did not have a chance to talk to Rollo about it before they left; he promised he would do so when they returned after the interview.
Daniel lent Poppy his scarf – a hand-knitted one in purple, orange and blue stripes. She wondered who had knit it. His mother? His wife? No, not his wife. She hadn’t seen a wedding ring on his finger. She inhaled the smell of him and smiled to herself, remembering the touch of his finger as he fastened her helmet and the weight of his hand on her shoulder in Rollo’s office. Good heavens! What was she thinking? She had a job to do and could not be distracted mooning over a man she had only just met. But then he helped her into the sidecar and covered her legs with a rug, tucking it tightly down the sides of her legs. Oh, that was too much. She pushed his hands away.
“Thank you, Mr Rokeby. I can manage.”
He looked at her askance, shrugged and then straddled the motorcycle. He lifted his leg like a dog and kicked down on the starter. The engine roared into life.
“Ready?” he shouted.
“Ready!” she called back and then grasped the edge of the sidecar as they slalomed their way between barrows and bins down the alley and into Fleet Street.
Dorchester lived out west in Windsor. It took Poppy and Daniel just over an hour to get there from central London. Once out of the gridlock of the city and on the open road, Daniel pulled back the throttle and pushed the motorcycle towards its full potential. Poppy had never felt anything so exhilarating in her life. She laughed and smiled at Daniel – which he took as a cue to go faster. She laughed again and threw back her head, wishing she could take off her helmet and allow her hair to fly in the wind. All tension between the two of them was gone and they were united in their love of speed and the open road.
She was disappointed when he finally slowed down on the outskirts of Windsor and joined the traffic skirting the edge of Ascot. Dorchester – apparently the owner of a string of champion racehorses – lived on an estate only a few miles from the racetrack. Outside the imposing wrought-iron gates marked with the family crest of a crow and a rose, Poppy and Daniel had a last-minute discussion about the approach they were going to take. Rollo had telephoned ahead and given Dorchester the bad news of Bert’s death and asked him if he minded if The Globe sent someone over to clarify a few points before going to print. They also wanted a photograph. Dorchester was notoriously vain and could never say no to a picture that might get him on the front page of a daily – even if it was a tabloid. Rollo had of course failed to mention that the person he was sending over was a woman.
The cycle advanced slowly up the gravel drive to the imposing façade of a sixteenth-century manor house, set amid perfectly manicured gardens. A butler was waiting for them on the steps at the front door and he took Daniel’s camera and tripod from him as the photographer helped Poppy out of the sidecar and unstrapped her helmet. Then he swapped the helmets for the camera and they followed the butler up the granite steps and through the front door.
They were quickly ushered into a large library, which was bigger than P
oppy’s parents’ entire two-storey house in Morpeth. But before Poppy could take in the grandeur of the book-lined room they were met by a pencil-thin man striding towards them, wearing a steel-grey morning suit and navy blue cravat. He was in his early sixties but had the gait of a much younger man. His dark-blond hair had only the slightest suggestion of grey, and his sharply trimmed sideburns none of it.
“Mr Rokeby and Miss Denby from The Globe, sir,” intoned the butler before backing out of the room.
“Ah, Rokeby! You did a splendid job on those King’s Cross memorial photographs. Everyone’s been commenting on them.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Daniel and took the gentleman’s hand.
“And may I introduce Miss Poppy Denby. Miss Denby, Lord Melvyn Dorchester.”
Dorchester did not extend his hand, but gave a stiff little bow, punctuated by a twitch of his mustachioed upper lip. “Miss Denby.” Then he turned his attention back to Daniel. “Dreadful business about Isaacs. Dreadful.”
“We’re all very shocked, sir.”
“I see Rolandson’s wasted no time in promoting you.”
“Promoting?” asked Daniel.
“To chief reporter. Isaacs’ old job” – he looked at Poppy briefly – “and a new assistant, I see. Was she Bert’s before yours?”
Poppy bristled at being spoken of as if she were property. “Actually, I am Mr Rolandson’s assistant. He has asked me to –”
“Ah. Thank you for clarifying that, madam.” Dorchester put his arm around Daniel, turning his back on Poppy.
“Shall we get on with this then, Rokeby? I’m due at the stables in half an hour.”
He ushered Daniel towards one of two winged armchairs on either side of a marble fireplace and indicated that Poppy should take a smaller chair nearby. Above the mantelpiece was a life-size painting of two children. The clothing suggested turn of the century or soon before. The boy, about ten, looked like a child version of Dorchester: the same blond hair, the same aquiline nose and cool grey eyes. The girl was a few years older, with thick auburn hair falling loosely over her shoulders; she was fleshier than her brother and although she had the same colour eyes, they were larger and set further apart. They were clearly related, but perhaps cousins rather than siblings; or maybe one took after the father and the other the mother.
“My children. Alfie and Lizzie, when they were younger,” said Dorchester. “Now, let’s get on.”
Poppy suddenly realized that she had been standing staring at the painting and neither man felt he could sit until she had done so first. She made her way towards her allocated seat, but Daniel redirected her to the armchair and then pulled up the other chair for himself.
“Miss Denby,” he smiled.
“Thank you, Mr Rokeby,” she smiled back.
“May we please get on now?” said Dorchester crisply, flicking out his jacket tails and then turning his attention to Daniel.
Daniel nodded at Poppy. She reached into her satchel and took out her notebook, where she had transcribed the questions Rollo had written out for her. She left the file out of sight in the bag.
“Lord Dorchester …” she started.
With a sharp intake of breath he pursed his lips and looked down his nose at her, clearly frustrated by what he considered another interruption. “Madam, do you mind? Rokeby, can you ask your – assistant to –”
“She is not my assistant,” said Daniel lightly. “In fact, if anything I am hers. I have not been ‘promoted’ as you assume, Lord Dorchester; I am a photographer, not a reporter, and am happy to remain so. Miss Denby here is The Globe’s newest journalist. And she –”
“Rolandson’s sent a – a –” – Poppy was sure he had been about to say “woman”, but he pulled himself back just in time – “novice to interview me?”
“Well, I –” started Poppy.
Daniel interrupted her. “Sorry, Poppy. If I may…” She nodded. “You are not Miss Denby’s first assignment by any means. She has most recently interviewed Robert Atkins and is highly connected in certain – how should I put it? – political circles. In fact she comes highly recommended.”
“Well, I –” tried Poppy again.
“Does she indeed?” droned Dorchester, once again not even looking at her.
Poppy remembered suddenly the Lord Kitchener look-alike at the stationer’s and what she had wanted to say to him if she had the chance to do it again. Well, this was her chance. And while she appreciated Daniel defending her – as she had her aunt – what she really wanted, no, what she really needed, was to do it herself.
“Thank you, Mr Rokeby. Lord Dorchester. May we please get started?” She said it with the forcefulness of a school headmistress, and before the two surprised men could comment any further she poked her pencil at the first question on her list and asked, “Could you confirm, sir, that you have won the contract to put new X-ray machines into London hospitals and that the first hospital to receive one will be the Royal London?”
Dorchester looked for a moment as though he were going to question her authority once more, but then with a terse look at his pocket watch appeared to decide against it. “Yes, I can confirm that.”
“And can you confirm that…”
For the next twenty minutes Poppy went through Rollo’s list of questions – as well as a few of her own – that essentially clarified the article Bert was writing before he died.
“Well, that just about covers it. Thank you, Lord Dorchester.”
With another quick look at his pocket watch, Dorchester stood briskly and smoothed down his jacket. “Right, where do you want me for the photograph, Rokeby?”
“However,” said Poppy, looking at her notes, “I have one more question.”
Dorchester bristled. “Well, I have no more time, madam.”
“It shan’t take a moment. And in case you’ve forgotten, the name is Denby, Poppy Denby. Is the name familiar to you?”
“No. Should it be?”
“We have a mutual acquaintance. Dorothy Denby is my aunt.”
Dorchester’s thin nostrils flared ever so slightly.
“And it is she who has inspired me to ask this: have you now changed your mind about women in the professions? Women such as Madame Marie Curie, one of the world’s leading scientists?”
“I do not know what you mean, madam,” said Dorchester, glaring at Daniel with a look that suggested he should get his “filly” under control.
Poppy was flicking through her notebook and then stopped at a particular page. “Is it not true that in the House of Lords in 1910 you declared that, and I quote, ‘women do not have the mental capacity to fulfil the roles that have been rightly reserved for men for millennia’ and that you would – and I again quote – ‘withdraw from the House if ever women were given the right to vote’?”
“Well, I –”
“Did you or did you not say that?”
“I did. And it is on record. But you misquote me. I hope you are not going to make a habit of this so early in your – journalistic – career. What I said, in context, Miss Denby, was that I support the advancement of women in as far as they are mentally able – as Madame Curie certainly is, and certain other women are too.”
“Certain other women? Such as Marjorie Reynolds?”
“Indeed. Marjorie Reynolds is an exception to the rule.”
“So, Lord Dorchester, would it be correct in saying that you still consider the vast majority of women intellectually inferior to men and incapable of professional advancement?”
“No, madam, it would not.” He pulled himself up to his full height and towered over her. “And be assured I shall be putting in a formal complaint to your editor.”
Dorchester and Poppy glared at one another, their feet almost toe to toe. She would have stood, but he did not give her sufficient room to do so.
“Ahem.” It was Daniel. “Should we take the photograph at the stables then?”
An hour later Poppy and Daniel were sitting in a te
a room in Windsor and he was pouring her a cup of Earl Grey from a floral teapot.
“Oh, Poppy, you were splendid, just splendid,” he chuckled as he put down the pot and offered her a slice of lemon.
“But he said he would put in a complaint to the editor,” said Poppy glumly and sucked on the lemon before she remembered where she was and put it down politely on her saucer.
“I know. Isn’t it marvellous? Rollo will be delighted. You have all the instincts of a first-class newshound, Miz Denby,” he drawled in a mock New York accent.
Poppy giggled. “I thought for a minute this hound was going to be taken outside and shot!”
“Pompous ass.”
Some elderly ladies, whose fashion icon was clearly the late Queen Victoria, tutted at him. Poppy stifled another giggle.
“Pardon me, ladies,” Daniel apologized.
“You’ve obviously met him before.”
“Dorchester?”
Poppy nodded.
“He pops up all over the place. Can’t get enough publicity, that one. And of course I know his son.”
“Alfie?”
“Yes. He’s a year or two older than me. We served in the same regiment in Flanders. Used to see him – and his father – a lot when I attended regimental dinners. Don’t bother with them any more now.” He rubbed his forefinger over some of the scar tissue on his right hand. Poppy wanted to ask what had caused it, but sensed this wasn’t the time.
“He’s insufferable. If you think Melvyn’s bad, you should meet his son.”
“Oh?” said Poppy, leaning in and turning her shoulder to block the view of the two Victorian ladies.
“Won the Victoria Cross.”
“That’s impressive.”
“It is, but he never shuts up about it. Neither does his dad. Surprised he didn’t bring it up today.”
“He was obviously distracted.”
Daniel raised an eyebrow in what Poppy’s mother would have described as a rakish manner. “I don’t blame him.”
“Mr Rokeby!” Her tone was chastising, but the twinkle in her eyes betrayed her. The disapproving ladies tutted again and Poppy heard mutterings of “Well I never” and “The youth of today”, before they gathered their hats and parasols and left the shop.
The Jazz Files Page 7