“What is it?”
“I’m not entirely sure. But there’s also this –” He pointed to part of a word in the place where a signature might have been: “lizabe”.
“Is that Elizabeth, do you think?”
Rollo nodded. “Indeed I do. Elizabeth Dorchester is in a mental hospital in –”
“Battersea,” finished Poppy, and she told Rollo what her aunt had told her.
Rollo nodded with interest, but didn’t say whether any of this was new to him. Instead he said, “Don’t you think it strange that Bert received a note from someone who might have been Elizabeth Dorchester on the day he died?”
“I do,” agreed Poppy. “And add to that the missing Jazz File that Ivan told us about –”
“And the sudden appearance of Richard Easling on the case –”
“And the sudden interest of Alfie Dorchester –”
“Well no, Poppy, that’s probably just a coincidence. Alfie’s simply a cad.”
“But his father isn’t.”
“No, he isn’t,” said Rollo thoughtfully, his fingers forming a pyramid. “He’s far worse than that.”
It was a glorious late afternoon in early July and Battersea Park was full of picnicking families, footballing youths and young couples walking arm in arm. From the top of the bus Poppy watched as a nursemaid picked up a screaming toddler who had fallen face first into his ice-cream and an old man nodded off to sleep on a nearby bench while his ageing Labrador kept watch beside him. The bus skirted the park and passed the gasworks towers. Rollo had told her the bus-stop she needed was the one just after the towers and – according to the map they had looked at in his office – the Willow Park asylum was a fifteen-minute walk south from the stop.
It had been her idea to visit the asylum. Initially Rollo had been reluctant – concerned about the potentially violent twist the investigation was beginning to take – and suggested she wait for Daniel to go with her the following day. He was currently on an assignment covering the opening of the Imperial War Museum by the king at Crystal Palace. However, Poppy had an idea of how she could get in under cover, and thought the presence of a known press photographer might work against her. She had read in The Globe that the Red Cross was asking for books to take to hospitals. So she decided to give Willow Park a ring and ask if they would be willing to accept a donation from “a Methodist Mission”. Poppy felt slightly uneasy that she allowed the person she spoke to to believe she was from the Methodist Mission in Chelsea – which she as yet had not got around to visiting – but she put her scruples aside, deciding that in the greater scheme of things God would forgive her this indiscretion in pursuit of truth and justice. Needless to say, Rollo agreed.
So Poppy dropped home to pick up the box of books she had been planning on donating to the Red Cross before catching the next bus to Battersea. Neither Grace nor Dot was in, so Poppy did not have to explain herself – which was a relief. She still didn’t know why Grace and Dot had never visited Elizabeth. Perhaps they had tried and been turned away. As Poppy approached the tall, wrought-iron gates of the asylum, she prayed that the same fate would not befall her.
The gates were locked. She spotted a bell and rang it. A few minutes later a uniformed security guard arrived and asked her her business. She said her name was Poppy Plummer (her mother’s maiden name) and that she had a delivery from the Methodist Mission. The man looked her up and down and noted the box of books, which was getting heavier and heavier.
“They could have sent someone to help you with that, miss,” he observed, then opened the gates. Inside he took the box from her and told her to follow him. Poppy looked up at the hundred-year-old red-brick building, designed in the Gothic style, and noted that if she ever changed careers and went into architecture this would be the last thing she would consider building as a place for sick people to get well. Although there were no gargoyles on the turrets, Poppy imagined that they were there anyway, snarling down at her and the guard as they walked up the gravel path. To left and right the gardens sloped down to the high perimeter wall and there was a smell of jasmine in the air as Poppy entered the asylum.
CHAPTER 14
It had been three days since Elizabeth had given the note to the window cleaner – and still no Mr Isaacs. But she wasn’t ready to give up yet. Plan A was still very much a possibility. She had asked God to help her, and she wanted to give him – and Mr Isaacs – a chance. At least that’s what she thought when hope flowed in her; but, like the moon and the tide, it soon threatened to wane. She’d asked God to help her many times before – during those long years of abuse she and her mother suffered at the hands of her father; in those dreadful days when her mother’s ship sank and she waited to hear if Maud was one of the survivors; during those tragic days when she sat at Emily Wilding’s bedside, praying she would come out of the coma; and during those torturous months in Holloway.
She thought he’d come through for her when the warden, without explanation, tossed her and Gloria out, declaring they’d been released – for now – and the strange hope had risen again. Then as she and Gloria, both weakened, feverish and emaciated, planned their next move, she’d felt some kind of divine direction; at least that’s what she’d thought at the time. But had it been divine? Or diabolical? What God would lead her and Gloria to make a plan that would end in the death of one and the incarceration in an asylum of the other?
And yet here it was again: that creeping hope. She picked up her old leather-bound Bible that had once belonged to her mother – the only possession they’d let her keep both in Holloway and Willow Park – and laid her hand on the embossed cross on the cover. She closed her eyes and mouthed a prayer, daring to believe – just one more time.
Poppy was surprised at how easily she had got into the asylum. The guard had escorted her to reception and then deposited the box on the counter, suggesting the receptionist find a trolley for the lady. While riding over on the bus, Poppy had envisaged a number of scenarios of what might happen if her cover was exposed, including arguing, running, hiding, and, in a fleeting hyperbole of fantasy, fighting. She had laughed at herself and instead rehearsed one or two alternative cover stories in case the staff at the asylum decided to check out her claim about a donation from the Methodist Mission. It turned out she needed none of them. The middle-aged man behind the counter appeared charmed by the pretty young Christian girl who was giving up her time to help those less fortunate than herself. Poppy had a twinge of guilt, but suppressed it, and, taking inspiration from Delilah, flashed him her most endearing smile.
The receptionist called a porter – a surly youth who soon brightened when he saw Poppy – to escort “the lady”. The receptionist then adopted a paternal air when he suggested that the men’s wing might contain sights inappropriate for an unmarried miss, and had directed the porter to take her to the women’s wing only. As this was Poppy’s goal anyway, she just smiled again.
The porter told Poppy that some of the women were in secure units and she would not be allowed to see them for her own safety. She was desperate to ask if Elizabeth was in one of those units, but knew that to do so would have blown her cover. So instead she prayed a quick prayer – trusting God wouldn’t hold her recent deception against her – and hoped for the best.
An hour later and her devil-may-care attitude was well and truly subdued. It must have been the saddest place she had ever been – and that included the military convalescent hospital. Some of the women she had seen were desperately lonely, grateful beyond words that someone bothered to spend a little time with them, suggesting this book or the other; others were vacant and unresponsive and no matter how many times she flashed her pretty smile she couldn’t engage with them. Again, others were surly or passively aggressive, giving furtive looks at the porter when he warned them to behave. Poppy wondered what might have happened if he hadn’t been there. She reminded herself that these were not the worst of them and she shuddered at what she might have seen in the secure unit.
Eventually she was led to a room just off a nurses’ station. The porter took a key from his belt and unlocked the door. He stuck his head in and said, “Liz, do you want a new book?” A voice replied in the affirmative and Poppy was ushered in. There, sitting near the window, looking out, was a woman in her mid-thirties with a long auburn plait down her back. She turned to see who was visiting her and Poppy had to stop herself from gasping when she saw the large grey eyes of Elizabeth Dorchester looking back at her – just as they had from the painting and the photograph.
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows curiously and said, “Hello. Who are you?”
“I’m Poppy Den – Plummer. I’m Poppy Plummer. I was wondering if you wanted a new book?”
“I do. What do you have for me?”
Poppy wheeled the trolley over to her. She looked back at the porter standing at the door. She wanted to speak to Elizabeth privately. Her mind whisked through a few options until she settled on: “Excuse me. Would it be possible to get a cup of tea? I’m parched. Would you mind awfully making a cuppa while I speak to… to… Liz, is it?”
Elizabeth nodded.
The youth looked uncertain. “Er – well, miss. I – well, I probably shouldn’t leave you alone with the patient.”
“Oh, I’m sure it will be all right,” said Poppy in her most soothing voice and blinking her blue eyes in a way she hoped was particularly charming. “I’m sure Liz and I can keep ourselves busy for a few minutes.”
The youth still looked uncertain.
“Please…”
He melted. She rewarded him with her most dazzling smile.
“All right,” he said. “But I’ll have to lock you in. Liz is harmless, but she tends to wander, don’t you, Liz?” he said loudly, as if talking to a deaf person or an imbecile.
“Liz” glared at him, but offered no words of contradiction.
Poppy waited until the door was locked. Then she noticed a nurse pop her head up to look through the glass pane. It was clear that although they might be out of earshot, they were still being watched.
Poppy exhaled nervously, then busied herself with the trolley. She ran a hand along the shelf and picked up Jane Eyre. She thought of Mrs Rochester in the attic, and stifled an impulse to giggle.
She offered the book to Elizabeth, who took it wordlessly while staring intently into Poppy’s eyes.
“Do I know you?” she whispered.
“You don’t,” whispered Poppy in return. “But I think you know my aunt. Dot Denby?”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened in recognition. “Dot!” She looked over Poppy’s shoulder to the door, where the nurse’s face was still framed in the window pane. “Is she here?”
“She isn’t,” said Poppy. She too looked over her shoulder at the door. She knew she didn’t have long. “Are you Elizabeth Dorchester?”
Elizabeth nodded.
“And did you write a letter to Bert Isaacs at The Daily Globe three days ago?”
Elizabeth nodded again.
“I thought so. I work for The Globe too.”
“Is Mr Isaacs…”
“I’m afraid Mr Isaacs is – he’s, well – he’s – had an accident.”
“Oh,” said Elizabeth, sounding deflated.
“But he’s sent me instead. The only problem is… well, the letter you sent got wet and we couldn’t read what it said. Only who it was from. Can you tell me what it said, Elizabeth?” She looked over her shoulder again and whispered, “We don’t have much time.”
Elizabeth nodded her understanding. “It said – I said – that I had been falsely imprisoned here by my father –”
“Melvyn Dorchester.”
“Yes. And I want to get out. No one here believes me. I think Mr Isaacs will. I think I met him once, many years ago.”
“With the WSPU?”
“Yes. I heard that he came to visit me, but he couldn’t get in. I think – well, I hope – he suspects something isn’t right. And it’s not. I need to get out.”
Poppy nodded. “I’m not sure how we can help…”
Elizabeth’s eyes turned from soft grey to flint. “You must. I can’t live like this any longer.” Then her eyes flitted to the Bible on the windowsill beside her. “I can make it worth your while. I can give your newspaper a – what do you call it? – a scoop.”
“Yes, a scoop, but we don’t need –”
“I have information that proves Melvyn Dorchester has been involved in criminal activity.”
Poppy’s newshound ears pricked at this, but she was cautious. “Ah. Well, no offence, Miss Dorchester, but your information will automatically be – well – be tainted by your present circumstances.”
Elizabeth smiled mirthlessly. “You mean no one will believe the woman in the loony bin.”
Poppy blushed. “Well, yes, I’m sorry, but that’s how it is.”
There were voices outside the door and a key was turning in the lock. Poppy and Elizabeth looked at each other and an unspoken “Hurry!”’ passed between them.
“Are you a Christian woman, Miss Denby?”
“I am,” said Poppy.
“Then will you pray with me?”
“Well, I” – the door opened – “yes, of course.”
“Good.” Elizabeth reached out and took her Bible. She held it on her lap and took Poppy’s hands and held them over the good book. She looked up at the porter standing with a cup of tea. “We’re just praying. Take a seat,” she said with the imperious authority of one born to wealth and privilege.
The porter looked as if he was about to argue, but then complied as one accustomed to taking orders. He gave Poppy the cup of tea, then sat down in a chair near the door and started picking studiously at his pimples.
Poppy put down the cup of tea on the floor beside her.
“Our Father,” said Elizabeth, “I thank you that you have brought your daughter, Poppy, here today to encourage me. Thank you for her generous spirit and the gifts she brings…”
Poppy nodded her assent to the prayer. Then she felt something slip under her hand. She peeked open an eye to see a folded sheet of paper. She quickly glanced at the porter to see if he had noticed. He hadn’t. She took the paper and slipped it into the pocket of her dress. Elizabeth squeezed her hands and continued praying.
“Father, I pray too for my sister here, that she may receive from you knowledge to lead her in the path you have chosen as she carefully studies the sacred text laid before her. I pray too that justice and truth will prevail, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
“Amen,” said Poppy, and opened her eyes.
Suddenly Elizabeth’s foot shot out and kicked over the cup of tea, smashing the cheap china against the wall. “Oh my! Look what I’ve done! Clumsy me.”
The porter jumped up and looked at the women suspiciously.
“Better clean that up before someone cuts themselves – or someone else,” said Elizabeth. “We wouldn’t want anyone to get the blame for putting our guest in danger now, would we…” she said, holding the porter’s gaze.
“I’ll do it,” said Poppy, understanding the game. “Have you got a dustpan and brush?” she asked the porter, who looked confusedly from one woman to the other.
Poppy gave him her “calming” smile, the one she had used in the convalescent home with soldiers who were in pain. “Get a dustpan, will you? I’ll sort it out. And don’t worry. No one has to know…” She tapped the side of her nose with her finger.
“All right,” said the lad. “Just a tick.” And he unlocked the door.
The women knew they only had half a minute or so. Elizabeth grabbed Poppy’s hand. “Take that to The Globe. Tell them there’s more where that came from. I’ve hidden it – outside, in a box, in a safe place – but you will have to get me out of here before I tell you where the rest is. Do you understand?” She squeezed Poppy’s hand until it hurt.
“I understand,” said Poppy and then turned to take the dustpan from the po
rter, who had just returned.
Five minutes later and Elizabeth and the room were just as Poppy had found them, with the addition of a copy of Jane Eyre, which lay beside the Bible on a sunlit windowsill. Poppy said “goodbye and God bless” as she had to all the patients that day, and with the help of the young porter wheeled her book trolley out of the room and continued with her delivery round.
As she left, she didn’t see another visitor arrive to see Elizabeth. Alfie Dorchester, who had been flirting with a red-haired nurse while his sister was choosing a book from a do-gooder, raised his eyebrows in recognition as he saw the pretty blonde girl emerge from Elizabeth’s room. He thought of calling out to her, but stopped. Best he speak to Lizzie first, lest the little slapper make a scene. But he’d be having words with Poppy Denby; oh, she could bank on that.
Half an hour later and Poppy thanked the guard with a sunny smile as he locked the gate of the asylum behind her. She had left the trolley of books in a common room and promised to come back in a few months with more. She’d meant it. Elizabeth or no Elizabeth, she had been deeply touched by what she’d seen today and wanted to reach out in some small way to help the people she’d met. But for now, she had a job to do. She walked twenty yards or so down the road and waited until she could no longer feel the admiring gaze of the guard on her back. Then she slipped her hand into her dress pocket and retrieved the tightly folded paper.
The moment Poppy unfolded it, she knew what it was. The columns of figures, names and dates were an extract from a ledger – much like the one she had kept at the mission in Morpeth. The jagged edge down one side suggested it had been torn out in a hurry. An asterisk and squiggly line in the middle of the page caught her attention. It underlined an entry for 3rd October 1910. To one R. Easling, the sum of fifty pounds.
Poppy stopped dead in her tracks, almost causing a man with a barrow of vegetables to career into her. She waved an apology and then focused again on the page. A chill ran down her spine. Was this evidence of a bribe to Police Constable Richard Easling? She scoured the page, front and back, to see if Dorchester’s name was on it anywhere – it wasn’t. But she was almost certain it had come from one of Dorchester’s ledgers and that Elizabeth had somehow managed to acquire it before she was taken into hospital. Perhaps she had smuggled it in in her Bible. Had she been waiting all these years to show it to someone? And she said there was a box somewhere with more of the same. Could she finally have proof that Dorchester had paid Richard Easling to run down her aunt and the other suffragettes? She needed to get the page to Rollo as quickly as possible.
The Jazz Files Page 11