Poppy was irked that Rollo was thinking about money at a time like this. But he was, first and foremost, a businessman.
“But I can understand you not wanting to be around him. Perhaps it’s better if you take a few days off.”
“I’ve had a few days off! I’ll be ready to get back to work on Monday. I’m ready today.”
“Hold on there, missy, I haven’t finished. What if I send you away somewhere on assignment?”
Poppy relaxed a bit. “What do you have in mind?”
“Paris is lovely at this time of year.”
“Paris? You mean… you mean –”
“Yes. I want you to go and speak to Sophie Blackburn. I’d go, but I’m in the middle of reapplying for my visa and I can’t leave the country.”
“But I don’t have a passport.”
“You don’t? Hmmm.” Rollo was quiet for a while, mulling this over, punctuating the silence with an occasional sniff.
“Take down this address.”
Poppy did so.
“There’s a guy there called Bobby Smith, who owes me a few favours. He’s got connections in the passport office. I’ll give him a call now and get him to arrange a temporary travel document for you. You can pick it up this evening.”
“This evening?”
“Yes, there’s a ferry leaving for Calais tonight. I want you on it.”
“But I –”
“Don’t worry, I’ll arrange the ticket. And some spending money. You can pick those up from Bobby too.”
“But my aunt – she’ll be worried. What am I going to say to her?”
This silenced Rollo for a while as he sniffed and thought. “Is she in?”
“No. She won’t be back until late this afternoon.”
“Then leave her a note saying you’re off on an assignment. Doing a feature on a getaway in Leamington Spa. I’ll give her a call to confirm it. I’ll tell her the paper was offered a few days there in return for a review – which is true, but we haven’t taken them up on it yet – and that I sent a motor for you. I’ll pitch it to her as a convalescence.”
“All right. She might buy that. So when can I expect the motor?”
Rollo hacked out a laugh. “Who do you think you’re working for? The Times? No, Miz Denby, we’re not made of money. You can get the train to Dover. Get a ticket from Charing Cross and keep the receipts.”
They finished their conversation with a discussion of the angle she would take with Sophie Blackburn, and Poppy promised to telegraph him from Paris when she got there.
“See you in a few days, Poppy. And be careful.”
As Poppy put down the telephone she was assailed with worry. Was she really fit enough to travel? What if she missed this Bobby Smith and couldn’t get the documents she needed? She’d never been out of the country before – would she know what to do? She only had school French and had never actually spoken to a real, live French person before. Would they be able to understand her? Would she understand them? Poppy suddenly felt very young and very small.
Only a month ago she had been leaving her parents in Morpeth. They had only agreed to let her go because she was going to be staying with her aunt, who was supposed to look after her. Now here she was working as an investigative journalist, on a story that may involve two murders, having survived at least one attempt on her life, and she was leaving the country. And she couldn’t tell her parents any of it.
Aunt Dot had told her that she telegraphed them to say she’d had “a little accident” and that they said they would come down to see her. But that would take a few days to arrange and the earliest they could be here was Tuesday. How long would she be out of town? The last thing she needed was for them to arrive in London while she was still in Paris. She would send them a telegram when she got to Charing Cross, telling them they shouldn’t bother coming as she was now out of hospital and feeling fine. She would tell them she was going to Leamington Spa for a few days with a friend and that they should book a telephone call with the Morpeth Post Office and she’d speak to them when she got back.
Oh, how she wished she could speak to them now and tell them everything. She yearned for someone to confide in. Delilah was in rehearsal, Grace and Dot were out (and besides, they were possibly implicated anyway), so that only left one person: Daniel. Rollo had told her not to tell him about the ledger page, but now that it was almost one hundred per cent certain that Lionel was the mole, surely that no longer applied? There was lots he already knew; what harm would there be in telling him more? Poppy unhooked the earpiece and dialled Daniel’s number.
“Hello? Hello?” It was a child’s voice.
“Let me! Let me!” A second child.
“Hello, is this the right number? I’m looking for Daniel Rokeby.”
“DADDY!”
“Daddy can’t come to the phone right now.” A woman’s voice. “Who is it? Hello? Can I help you?”
“Er – hello. I’m not sure if this is the correct number. I’m looking for Daniel Rokeby.”
“This is the Rokeby residence. May I enquire who’s calling?”
“Er – my name’s Poppy Denby. It’s to do with work. I’m from The Globe.”
“Well, Miss Denby, Daniel is sick. He’s sent in a sick note. I’m sure if you check your files you’ll find it. Good day to you.” She put down the phone.
Poppy looked at the earpiece, not believing what she had just heard, then she quietly put it down. She leaned against the wall in the hall for support while she steadied her breathing, then slowly slid to the floor. As her bottom hit the tiles she began to cry, great wrenching sobs that hurt her ribs with each breath. But she didn’t care. And she cried until there was nothing left in her.
CHAPTER 20
Poppy mounted the gangplank of the Fleur-de-lis with the upper-class passengers while some motorcars were being winched onto the ferry by a crane. Unlike most of the travellers, who were accompanied by valets and maids, Poppy carried her own suitcase. She had had to borrow one of Aunt Dot’s, as she had left hers in Rollo’s office when she fled from Lionel – yet another thread that if pulled would rapidly unravel her story. How long she could keep this up, she had no idea, but the desire to pursue the truth took the edge off her guilt.
She was surrounded by cut-glass accents in English and French, and ladies who looked as though they were on a Parisienne runway, not a Dover gangplank. Poppy was conscious of her dull travelling clothes – the same ones she had arrived in from Morpeth – and wished Delilah had been on hand to give her a makeover. She was not dressed for the company she would be travelling with and had not been prepared for it. Knowing Rollo’s predilection for doing things on the cheap, she was surprised when Bobby Smith handed her a first-class ticket – all he could get at short notice, he told Poppy, and Rollo would have to like it or lump it. At the top of the plank she gave the steward her ticket and he called a porter to take her suitcase, announcing in a French accent that “a lady should not carry ’er own luggage”!
On the way to her cabin, the porter pointed out the main attractions on board: the bar, the dining room, the games room, the library and a small shopping emporium. It consisted of a parfumier, a tobacconist, a barber’s and hairdressing salon, a gentlemen’s outfitters and a ladies’ dress boutique.
Her cabin, although small, was luxurious. It seemed a bit of a waste, as the trip over would only take a few hours and she would have to transfer to the Blue Train for an overnight run to Paris. Thanks to Bradshaw’s Illustrated Travellers’ Handbook that she had borrowed from Grace and Dot’s library, she knew that the ferry would be leaving Dover at ten o’clock and arriving in Calais at half-past midnight. A light supper would be provided, and for first-class passengers evening dress was required. This seemed a little silly to Poppy, as they would be transferring to a train in a few hours. Many of the toffs didn’t bother getting changed again in Calais and Poppy had heard that some of the younger set started their party in the ferry bar and finished it in Le Train
Bleu cocktail coach when it arrived in Paris at seven o’clock the following morning. Poppy intended to get some sleep on the train but did still want to be appropriately dressed for dinner on the ferry. So after tipping the porter she decided to do a bit of shopping.
The boutique, like everything else on the first-class deck, was small but luxurious. The shop assistant looked on her with pity in her fawn outfit, and brought out the cheaper dresses in their range. Even these were more than Poppy had hoped to pay, but it was too late to back out now. So Poppy told the assistant how much money she had to spend and the collection diminished yet again to a choice between two dresses: a simple turquoise faux silk shift that came to just above Poppy’s knees and a drop-waisted yellow frock in cotton. Poppy chose the turquoise as most appropriate for evening. She was pleased to see that the dress had a matching bag decorated with Chinese-inspired embroidery.
With her purchases wrapped and placed in her satchel, she followed the stream of passengers up to the top deck as the Fleur-de-lis horn blasted its intention to set sail.
Midsummer in the south of England, the sun set well into the evening, so as the ferry pulled out of the harbour the town of Dover was silhouetted against an orange backdrop, and the famous white cliffs were bathed in pink and gold. It was the most beautiful sight Poppy had ever seen and it brought tears to her eyes – not of sadness, but awe.
“It gets you every time, doesn’t it?” asked an elderly lady standing beside her. She was dressed in sensible tweed and Poppy noticed a Bradshaw’s poking out of the pocket of her travelling cape.
“It’s my first time,” said Poppy softly.
“Ah,” said the old lady. “Then don’t get used to it. I’ve travelled the world, my dear, and nothing rivals this.”
She then went on to enquire about the purpose of Poppy’s voyage and with whom she was travelling. She was surprised to hear Poppy was on her own; she was with a party of continental travellers organized by Thomas Cook and Son.
“It really isn’t safe for a young lady on her own. I’m surprised your parents let you come.”
Poppy tried not to bristle and explained patiently to the lady – who had introduced herself as Miss Betty Swan – that she was a working lady and was going to Paris on business. Miss Swan appeared shocked and intrigued in equal measure and when she enquired as to the nature of Poppy’s business, Poppy surprised herself by lying: the stationery business.
Later, as she prepared for dinner, she wondered why she had done it. And she realized it was because she just wanted to be left alone. Although she had worked at the newspaper for only a week (and two days of that had been spent in hospital) she had already discerned that the moment anyone heard you were connected with the press they were either on their guard, worried that you were going to splash their affairs across the front page, or the opposite, desperate that you would. After Poppy’s recent ordeal and the shock of learning that Daniel was married, she did not have the emotional energy to deal with either. Lying just seemed easier. She would deal with the spiritual consequences later.
Supper was a shellfish bisque followed by a buffet of continental meats, cheese and fruit, topped off by a strawberry pavlova. Miss Swan invited her to sit with the Thomas Cook party and she made polite small talk about the stationery business, which everyone appeared to find fascinating. Poppy prayed that there wouldn’t be a real stationery expert in the party, then repented for praying that God would endorse her lie.
As soon as she could, she headed for the bar – not that she was desperate for a drink, but at least there she didn’t have to continue with her charade, as Miss Swan and her companions announced that they were going to take coffee on the deck. She balked at the price of pink champagne, which was the only drink she knew of, and took the advice of the barman to try a light chardonnay which, apparently, was cheaper but still suitable for a lady. For the second time that night Poppy wished Delilah was with her to help her navigate the complexities of high society.
Glass in hand, she looked for a place to sit. There were mixed groups of bright young people and separate groups of older gentlemen. The older men were obviously not an option, but she wasn’t sure how to attach herself to a mixed group without actually knowing anyone. She lurked for a while, hoping to catch someone’s eye and be invited into a group, but nothing happened. So instead she took her drink out onto the deck and leaned on the railing, watching the lights of Dover flickering dimly in the distance. She sipped her drink and found it less zingy than the champagne, but still pleasantly fruity.
“Why, if it isn’t Miss Denby! You do get around.”
Poppy nearly dropped her glass in shock. She turned to see Alfie Dorchester leaning on the railing with a whisky glass in hand.
“So they let you out of hospital. Did you get my flowers?”
“Yes and yes. Excuse me.” Poppy turned to walk back into the bar, but Alfie blocked her path.
“Where are you going? Paris?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“That’s rich from a girl who makes a habit of poking her nose into other people’s business.”
Poppy opened her mouth to retort and then decided against it. It was pointless getting into an argument with Alfie Dorchester. She tried to get past him again. He laughed coldly and took a step towards her. She took a step backwards and felt the railing press into the small of her back.
“Did you know that half a dozen people fall off ferries every year in the United Kingdom? A strange statistic that. It never seems to vary. You would think that some years it would be more and others less, but apparently not. It’s as if the sea requires its quota.” He leaned towards her. “I wonder how many have died this year?”
Poppy prepared herself to scream but was cut short by a bellow from the bar. “It’s Alfie Dorchester! Alfie! Come join us! Viscount Dorchester won the Victoria Cross, you know …” This was met with a cheer and a round of “For he’s a jolly good fellow”.
Alfie straightened up and smiled. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Denby, my public awaits. I shall see you later.” Then he raised his glass in mock salute before turning to embrace the applause.
Poppy felt sick. She poured the rest of her wine over the side and put the glass down on a nearby table. Then while Alfie’s blond head bobbed above a throng of admirers, she hurried back to her cabin. She planned to stay there, behind locked doors, until they docked in Calais. However, when she opened the door she was greeted by an upturned room. Her suitcase had been emptied out onto the floor and its contents rifled. There was only one person who could have done this. She knew, however, that he was upstairs in the bar; but what if he had paid someone to do it? And what if that person was still in the room? She took a step backwards.
“Miss Denby! Are you all right?”
Poppy’s heart leapt at the sensible voice of Miss Swan. She and two other ladies were walking towards her down the hall. As they reached her they poked their heads in to see what she was looking at.
“Good heavens! What’s happened? Has there been a robbery? We must call the captain at once!”
Poppy imagined having to explain this to the captain with Miss Swan and her friends listening in. She would then have to admit she was a reporter on assignment and not a stationery rep. She might also have to tell them why she was heading to Paris, and she did not want to do that. Besides, she knew that the only thing of importance was still on her person. She slipped her hand into her turquoise evening bag and felt Sophie Blackburn’s letter. No, another lie was needed.
“It’s all right, Miss Swan. I picked the suitcase up without realizing it was unfastened. Silly me.”
Miss Swan looked disappointed there was no crime to be solved and sighed. “Oh well, never mind. We’re off for a game of rummy. I don’t suppose you want to join us…”
“Actually, Miss Swan, a game of rummy is just what I feel like. If you’ll give me a moment to tidy this up, I’ll be with you in a tick.”
Three rounds of rummy
and an hour and a half later, Poppy disembarked the Fleur-de-lis as an honorary Thomas Cook adventurer. She glared at Alfie as she passed him and made sure he heard her tell the porter on the Blue Train that she was happy to trade in her single cabin for a bunk with Miss Swan and friends.
Alfie stubbed out his cigarette with a twist of his heel and headed straight for the cocktail carriage.
CHAPTER 21
Poppy felt well rested and, for now, safe when the Blue Train entered Gare du Nord at half past seven the next morning. Disembarking, she stuck closely to her new Thomas Cook companions and, although she could not see Alfie anywhere, decided to take them up on their offer to travel with them to their hotel. Bobby Smith in Dover had not booked a hotel for her (“Tell Rollo I’m not a bleedin’ travel agent”), so she did not have any pre-booked accommodation. Miss Swan said they stayed at Hôtel du Congrès on the rue du Colisée every year. According to Bradshaw’s it was “quiet, comfortable, clean and modestly priced”. Just what she was looking for.
The hotel was situated just off the Champs-Élysées and although Poppy had never been there, she instantly recognized the world-famous Arc de Triomphe at one end of the boulevard and the Eiffel Tower on the skyline, south of the river. She enquired of her companions whether or not the tower was open for visitors on a Sunday and was informed that sadly it was not. The only thing to do in Paris on the sabbath was to walk down the boulevards or take a boat ride on the river. One couldn’t even go to church, according to Miss Swan, because the whole place was “packed with Catholics”.
So after breakfast Poppy decided to take a walk, declining the offer of another member of the Thomas Cook party to accompany her to the Arc de Triomphe to view the lighting of the eternal flame in memory of an unknown soldier. Poppy had had her fill of war memorials and doubted the French version would be any different from the English.
Poppy followed the map in Bradshaw’s and sauntered down the boulevard, hoping to find an avenue linking to the river. But before she got too far, bells pealed out from all directions, calling the faithful to Mass. Poppy automatically headed towards the nearest church, which turned out to be L’église de la Madeleine, a structure modelled on a classical Corinthian temple.
The Jazz Files Page 16