As he was talking, Daniel positioned the trolley next to Ivan’s regimentally organized desk.
“Do I put the files away?” asked Poppy.
“No. Ivan will do it later. After he’s hauled Rollo over the coals. He’ll be calmer then, and he might just show you around. There’s some fascinating stuff down here.”
“Like the Jazz Files?”
Daniel raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Yes, like the Jazz Files. But I wouldn’t go sniffing around by yourself. Ivan keeps a tight ship.”
“So I see,” observed Poppy. Then she had a thought: “So would he know if anyone was visiting the morgue on the day Bert died?”
“He would. We can ask him when he comes back.”
“Ask me what?”
Poppy and Daniel turned around to see Ivan hanging his hat back on the stand. He looked a lot calmer than he had a few minutes ago. He shrugged, as if by explanation. “Mavis said Rollo was out. I see him later.” Then he smiled, showing a top row of gold teeth, and thrust out a bear-sized paw towards Poppy. “I am Ivan Molanov. Archivist.”
Poppy marvelled at how hot and cold the archivist could blow in such a short space of time, but thrust out her hand too. “Hello. I’m Poppy Denby, editorial assistant.”
Ivan flicked over her hand and brought it to his lips. “I am very happy to make your acquaintance, Mees Denby.”
“Er, Daniel – Mr Rokeby – said I should just leave the files here and you will sort them. Is that correct?”
“It is. Have you sorted them by slug and date?”
“I have.”
“Good, good. Then that is all I need. Thank you, Mees Denby.”
“Oh no, thank you, Mr Molanov. And I’m sorry Mr Rolandson didn’t tell you about me – or the files.”
“Ah, that not your fault.” He smiled again, and despite the gold teeth and fearsome facial hair, there was a warmth about him. Poppy was beginning to like Ivan Molanov.
“Right then,” said Daniel. “Let’s get a cup of coffee before the ed meeting.”
“Erm, yes, but – while we’re here, shouldn’t we ask Mr Molanov about Mr Issacs?”
“Bert? What you want to ask about Bert?”
“The day he died,” said Poppy. “Did you see him?”
“As I told police, no, not since morning. He was looking at a Jazz File.”
“Oh? Which one?”
“The one of Elizabeth Dorchester.”
Poppy’s ears pricked up. “Do you have it? Can I see it?”
Molanov’s shaggy brows collided. “Why you want see it?”
“Because I have – er – taken over from Mr Isaacs on a story he was writing.”
Daniel cleared his throat. “Well, Poppy, I wouldn’t say you’ve taken over…”
“Well, perhaps not taken over, but I helped Rollo finish Bert’s last article and –”
“It matters not. The file is gone,” Ivan interrupted.
“The Elizabeth Dorchester Jazz File is gone?” asked Poppy incredulously. “When?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Bert took it without asking. Maybe it is in his papers. But it is gone.”
Poppy ignored Daniel’s body language, which was strongly suggesting they bring the conversation to a close and go and have coffee. “All right. Thank you, Mr Molanov. But if you don’t mind, one more thing.”
“Just one more. I am very beesy, Mees Denby.”
“Of course. On the day Mr Isaacs – Bert – died, did anyone get off the lift at the third floor? I mean in the moments before or after he fell.”
Ivan looked surprised. “Have you been talking to police, Mees Denby?”
“I have not.”
“Well, that is strange. They ask same thing.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said I did not see anyone. But I hear them. I hear bell on lift. But no one came in here. I did not see them.”
Poppy absorbed this information.
Daniel was now looking interested. “I saw you in the foyer, Ivan, just after Bert’s fall. Did you run down when you heard the screams?”
“I did, like everyone else.”
“Everyone perhaps except the man in the lift.”
“What man in lift?”
“The one you heard but didn’t see,” said Poppy. “Did you run down the stairs or go in the lift?”
“The stairs.”
Poppy looked excitedly from one man to the other. “So technically, the mysterious man in the lift could have hidden there until Ivan left, and then slipped in here in all the chaos.”
“He could have,” agreed Daniel. “But to what end?”
“The Elizabeth Dorchester Jazz File,” Ivan said.
Poppy grinned. “Ah, Mr Molanov, you’ve hit the nail right on the head.”
A detour to the powder room showed dark rings under her eyes. Poppy regretted not bringing Delilah’s compact with her to work, finally acknowledging that foundation powder might have a good use after all.
She ran her fingers through her newly cropped curls. The haircut alone would be enough to alarm her parents, but champagne, jazz, and a dead journalist would send them into a cadenza. She stifled a giggle. Well, what else did they expect, sending her to live with Aunt Dot? The former actress was renowned for her party lifestyle. But it wasn’t just her social life she was hiding from them. Poppy sighed. She knew she would have to tell them about her new job sometime, but she had enough to think about for now. She would send them a telegram at lunchtime saying all was well and that she would write a proper letter in a couple of weeks. That would hold back the tide for a while. And hopefully, when she got her first pay cheque and was able to send some money home to help the mission, they would see the wisdom in her taking a more highly paid job. And it was a respectable job.
She splashed water on her face, pinched her cheeks to bring up some colour and left the powder room.
Poppy returned to the canteen, where Daniel was chaperoning a pair of coffee cups. His face lit up. Her heart warmed.
“If I may say so, Miss Denby, you are looking lovely, despite your late night.”
Poppy sighed. “I’m not used to them. But I didn’t have the heart to say no to Delilah. I’ll have to be a little firmer next time.” She sat down, picked up her coffee, and took a restorative sip.
He grinned. “Your friend… is she one of the Marconis?”
“She is. A friend of my aunt’s. She’s the actress I went to interview for the Midsummer piece.”
“Ah, that explains it. I met her great-uncle Marconi last year. I was with Bert. He was doing a story on the proposed British Broadcasting Company. It’s opening next year – or perhaps the next – at Marconi House.”
“So I hear. Radio into every home in the country.”
“That’s the plan. Anyway, he offered me a job.”
“Did he? What did you say?”
“I thanked him for his kindness but said I was very happy at The Globe.”
“And are you? Very happy here?” Poppy lowered her cup and looked into his handsome face.
Daniel looked into his coffee as if searching for an answer to her question there. “Mostly. The hours are tricky and it’s difficult to manage things at home, but Rollo’s a great boss and, like Ivan, I owe him.”
Poppy had picked up on “manage things at home” and immediately wondered what he meant. But she felt it would be overstepping the mark to ask him. So instead she asked Daniel what he meant by owing Rollo.
Daniel rubbed his scarred hands and took a deep breath. “We met in a field hospital in Flanders – 1915. Ivan and I were in the same tent. I’d had a run-in with a phosphorous grenade. He’d been found shot and lying in a ditch on our side of the Maginot line. It was thought for a while he was a spy. Rollo convinced the Brits he wasn’t and they let him go.”
“Was Rollo a patient too?”
Daniel laughed. “Not if you discount treatment for a hangover, no. He was covering the war for The New York Times. His cameraman had
been shot – not fatally – and was at the hospital too. He was eventually discharged and went back Stateside. Rollo, Ivan and I hit it off. Rollo gave me his contact details and told me to let him know if I ever needed a job. I’d spent some time with the American photographer before he left and he showed me some of the tricks of the trade. I couldn’t do much with – with these at the time,” he splayed his hands, “but I remembered what he showed me and when I got back to England I took up photography. I stayed in touch with Rollo and when he won The Globe in that poker game, he offered me a job. That was 1916. I’ve been here ever since.”
“And Ivan?”
“Late ’17. After the October Revolution. It became clear he could never go home.”
“What about his family?”
Daniel started rubbing his hands again. “All dead. Supporters of the Tsar.”
Poppy was suddenly overwhelmed by the sadness of it all: Ivan and his family, Bert and his lack of family, Maud and Elizabeth Dorchester, Delilah’s mother, the dead soldiers from Daniel’s unit, her brother… Oh God, she prayed silently, where were you? Where are you? Typically, there was no answer. She had not heard him speak to her for a very long time. She sighed and had another sip of coffee.
Five minutes later, she and Daniel were sitting with the rest of the editorial staff in the newsroom. Lionel Saunders, the arts and entertainment editor, was staring daggers at her. She ignored him. Rollo – pointer in hand – went through what she was beginning to realize was the daily agenda of checking in with each section to see what was going into the next day’s edition. When it came to arts and entertainment she was surprised that he singled her out and congratulated her on her first byline for the Midsummer Night’s Dream piece. There was a smattering of ironic applause, then Lionel piped up: “Actually, Rollo, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that. I would have appreciated it – really appreciated it – if you could have passed that with me first.”
“And I,” drawled the American, “would have appreciated – really appreciated – if you’d come into work that day. If it hadn’t been for Poppy your ass would have been on the line – pardon the French, Miz Denby – so you should be thanking her.”
“Thanking her!” squeaked Lionel. “She nearly lost us the Chaplin pic last night, didn’t she, Rokeby?”
“Well – not really, Lionel. We got the pic and –”
“No thanks to her and her distractions. You should have seen what she was wearing.”
Sniggers and wolf whistles erupted in the newsroom. Poppy flushed as brightly as her namesake.
Rollo grinned, enjoying the raucous humour, but brought the meeting to order. “All right, fellas, that’s enough. Dan, you did get the picture of Charlie, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“No thanks to Miz Denby,” muttered Lionel sarcastically.
“And no thanks to Alfie Dorchester,” declared Poppy. She was not going to take all the blame for this; she was absolutely not.
“Oh?” said Rollo, suddenly serious. “What about Alfie?”
“He was making – well, he was making inappropriate advances on me and was quite put out when I turned him down.”
“Good for you,” said Rollo thoughtfully.
“And if it hadn’t been for –” started Daniel, but Rollo interrupted him.
“Can I see you in my office after this, Poppy? I think I might have another assignment for you.”
CHAPTER 13
After the meeting Poppy went to Rollo’s office as instructed. However, she had to wait outside because during the editorial meeting Mavis Bradshaw had shown up a police detective who wanted to see Rollo and would not take no for an answer. Poppy got this information from Mavis, who seemed quite put out by what she had described as the detective’s “rude manner”.
“He wasn’t like the police officers who were here after poor Bert died, Poppy. They were very sympathetic, knowing what a shock we’d all had. This one should learn some manners,” she humphed, before making herself a cup of tea and taking it back down to reception.
Poppy took a seat outside Rollo’s office and waited to be summoned. She could hear raised voices – one English, one American – but could not hear exactly what was said. “Obstruction of justice” and “freedom of the press” were two phrases that popped out, but she couldn’t make much sense of the in-between. She was just beginning to let her eyelids droop when the door to Rollo’s office was slammed open and an angry man in a cheap blue suit and black chesterfield coat stormed out. He rammed a black bowler hat onto his head and glared at Poppy.
“Do I know you?”
“N-no – sir.”
He growled and blasted his way out of the newsroom.
Poppy turned to see Rollo leaning wearily on the doorframe. He ran his hand over his thick red hair and sighed. “God help us, Miz Denby. God help us.” Then he gestured for her to come in. He stood in the middle of his office, raised his arms as though he were about to fly and turned slowly round. “Space. Good job, Poppy.”
“Still a way to go, sir.”
“Rollo.”
“Still a way to go, Rollo. I took a trolley-load down to the morgue. There’s at least five or six loads more.”
“Yes, Ivan nabbed me on the way up. Gave me a good rollicking about the files, but he seems to be quite taken with you.”
“Oh?” Poppy flushed.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be quite safe with Ivan. He’s not the romantic sort.”
Poppy remembered the chivalrous kiss to her hand which from another man might have been construed as lecherous or rakish. “But a gentleman, nonetheless.”
“Ivan’s been described as many things, but I’m not sure ‘gentleman’ is one of them.” He gestured for Poppy to sit.
“Do you know who that man was?” Rollo asked.
“The man that stormed out? No, I’ve never seen him before.”
“That is Chief Detective Inspector Richard Easling of the Metropolitan Police. He’s investigating Bert’s death. He’s convinced it was suicide and wants access to Bert’s files to prove it.”
Richard Easling… Hadn’t Poppy heard that name before?
“Do you think it was suicide?” Poppy asked.
“I don’t. And neither do you from what Ivan’s been telling me.”
“I-I-I…” Poppy stuttered.
Rollo raised his hand. “It’s all right, Poppy. I know you were going to tell me eventually.”
“It was just a theory, really, but now that Ivan has said he heard someone in the lift…”
“It’s a good theory. It could still of course have just been an accident, but I’m not prepared to rule out foul play just yet.”
“But now the police think suicide.”
“No,” said Rollo, templing his fingers and flicking them back and forth under his chin. “DCI Richard Easling thinks it’s suicide. PC Plod and his pals are happy to call it an accident.”
“Why is Easling so keen to call it suicide then? And what does he expect to find in Bert’s files?”
“That, Poppy, is exactly the question. I’ve been going through them and can’t find anything more than I’ve given you already. But there must be something we’re missing. And as for the suicide – the alleged suicide – well, I can’t say for sure, but I think Easling is trying to discredit Bert. If Bert can be shown to have killed himself, then that suggests an unstable frame of mind. And if he was unstable, that would discredit any theories he might have had or articles he might have written.”
“But why would a police detective do that?” asked Poppy, completely flummoxed by this whole line of thinking.
“Because it’s Richard Easling. Have you heard the name before, Poppy?”
“It sounds familiar, but I’m not sure…”
“Well, he seemed to think he had seen you before. Or someone quite like you…” Rollo sat back in his chair and looked at her over his templed fingers.
“My aunt?”
“Well done, Miz D
enby. You’re a little slow today, aren’t you? Must be your late night fighting off advances from Alfie Dorchester.” He grimaced. “Richard Easling was the police officer who rode the horse that crippled your aunt. He was a plain mounted police constable back then. Now, let’s see how awake you are. What is Richard Easling’s connection with the Dorchesters?”
Poppy screwed up her eyebrows and tried to think. “He was supposedly in Lord Dorchester’s pay?”
“Give the prize to the little lady! Co-rrect! But nothing was ever proved, nor was it likely to have been if Bert hadn’t dug up the old Jazz File on it while he was looking for background material for the Dorchester/Marie Curie story.”
Poppy was suddenly awake. “You have evidence that Dorchester paid to have my aunt attacked?”
Rollo dropped his hands and pursed his lips. “I don’t. And neither did Bert. But I think he was on to something. Here…” He pulled open a drawer and took out a thin manila folder. He opened it to reveal a single sheet of bloodstained writing paper. “I got this from one of Easling’s colleagues last night. That’s why Easling was here. He wanted it back. He said his colleague had made a mistake by giving it to me. That it was still evidence. But I wouldn’t give it to him. He’s gone off to get a court order.”
“Will he succeed?”
“He might. But our legal lads will keep him at bay long enough for us to follow this up.”
“What is it?” Poppy leaned in to have a closer look in the dusty light, making a mental note to clean Rollo’s windows when she had a chance…
“It’s the letter that was delivered to Bert on the day he died. I’ve just had Mavis in and she’s identified it.”
“What does it say?”
Rollo pushed the letter towards her. There was very little to see. “Well, as you can see, the ink has been obscured by all the blood. Apart from the odd word here and there” – he pointed to a couple of scrawls – “which make no sense in isolation, the only thing we can see for sure is this.” He pointed with a letter opener to something that might have been “Batte” and “illow” in the place where an address might have been.
The Jazz Files Page 10