Poppy moved on to the second window. It seemed to depict the story of Cain and Abel: brother betraying brother; brother killing brother. Poppy had always felt sorry for Cain. No one had ever satisfactorily told her why Cain’s offering of grain was not good enough. He kept crops, his brother kept livestock, they each gave what they had. Her father had said it was the blood that had pleased God. It was symbolic of Jesus as the Lamb of God. But how could Cain have known that? And what no one had ever explained to her was why God was so keen on blood in the first place. She looked over at the offering of candles and thought again of lighting one for Christopher. She was just about to get up, when the door creaked again. She looked up to see the man she had been expecting.
Henri came into the church without dabbing his finger into the font, without crossing himself and without bowing towards the altar. He slipped into the pew beside Poppy and placed a suitcase at her feet. He put out his hand. She placed a folded piece of paper into it, which he quickly perused then slipped into his inside pocket.
“Is it safe?” she asked in French.
“Oui. Dorchester a été envoyé dans la mauvaise direction.”
Poppy nodded her thanks. She wasn’t sure if she could believe this man, or Sophie Blackburn, but it was her only chance of getting out of Paris undetected.
With the revelation that Alfie knew where she was staying and that he had known about her visit to Paris before she had left London, Poppy had not felt safe going back to the hotel. But Sophie had had a suggestion. In return for a written declaration that neither Poppy nor The Globe would use her name in any story that may appear in connection with Dorchester, she would arrange to send false information to Alfie about where the English reporter was going next. Apparently she was going to be heading to Belgium to find her brother’s grave. Poppy had no idea where her brother was buried, only that it was a mass grave somewhere in Flanders. There was something unpalatable about Alfie Dorchester seeing it before she did, but she doubted he would actually go to Belgium. He was more likely to stake out the train station. However, he would be waiting at another station to the one she would need to pass through to get the train back to Calais.
“And you saw him leave the hotel with that information from the manager?”
“Oui.”
Poppy had no choice but to believe him. Sophie claimed that the manager of her hotel was a distant cousin of Henri’s and that they would ask him to misdirect the Englishman if he came. They would also arrange for Poppy’s suitcase to be collected from her room and the bill paid. Sophie had already extracted the money from Poppy at the Institute to pay for the bill; as Poppy handed over the francs she wondered if she was contributing to her own Judas purse. Poppy also had no idea whether or not Rollo would stick to the agreement, but she had written out a copy of the promise to show him anyway.
On the train from Paris to Calais Poppy took up her private berth and wondered if the Thomas Cook crowd had noted her absence and thought her rude not to say goodbye. When all this was over, she would write a letter of thanks and apology, care of the Thomas Cook office in London. But for now she just had to let them think what they wanted to think. She wondered if Alfie had found out yet that she wasn’t on the train to Brussels. He definitely wasn’t on this train – she had asked when she handed over her ticket, claiming Alfie was an old friend and she had hoped to meet up with him – but at each station the Blue Train stopped, she anxiously scanned the platform.
It was a very stressful six hours to Calais. Poppy had tried to occupy herself by making notes about what Sophie had told her, but her fountain pen kept blotching and she ended up with more ink on her hands than on the paper. But she did manage to get down a few pages. She slipped her notebook – along with the letter from Sophie to Bert, her ticket and her passport – into the inside pocket of her blue jacket. If she were somehow separated from her satchel on the journey she did not want the incriminating information to fall into the wrong hands. The wrong hands? She laughed at herself. That sounded as though she was in the middle of a mystery novel!
The rest of the journey from Paris to Calais, Calais to Dover, then Dover to London was uneventful. At nine o’clock the next morning she stood on the doorstep of 137 King’s Road and noticed two days’ worth of milk had not been brought in and two newspapers were sticking out of the letter box. She tried her key in the lock, but the door would not open – it was obviously bolted shut from the inside. What was going on? Both Grace and Dot were usually early risers. She rang the doorbell a few times, but again there was no answer. She looked up and the curtains of the upstairs rooms were still closed.
“There’s been no sign of ’em for two days.”
Poppy turned around to see Mr Thompson the window cleaner trundling past in his wagon.
“Oh, hello, Mr Thompson. I’ve been away for a few days. I’ve –” Poppy considered for a moment telling him about what she’d heard in France about his son, but this was not really the time and place. “Have you knocked?”
“I have. Due to do the windows yesterday, I was. No answer. Might be away.”
“They might… but I think the door’s bolted from inside and I’m a bit worried. Would you mind awfully if I borrowed your ladder?”
“My ladder?”
“Yes. That’s Mrs Wilson’s bedroom window up there. I think I need to take a look.”
“You mean…”
“Oh, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about; it’s just that… well… I’m worried.”
Mr Thompson looked up at Grace’s window, puffed out his cheeks and said, “Better safe than sorry, I suppose. Hold on.”
He tied off Bess’s reins and unhooked his extendable ladder from the back of his wagon. He put his foot on, ready to climb up.
“Could I go, Mr Thompson? I don’t think either of the ladies would appreciate a gentleman looking in on them if they are simply having a lie-in.”
Mr Thompson thought about this for a minute and nodded his agreement. “I’ll hold the ladder for you then, miss. But you be careful.”
“Oh, I will.”
Poppy climbed the ladder carefully, hoping that Mr Thompson would have the decency not to look up her skirt. Grace’s window was closed, but there was a small chink in the curtains. She peered through into the gloom beyond. She thought she saw some movement on the bed. She knocked on the window and called out, “Grace! Aunt Dot!”
To her relief there was a shuffle of bedclothes and Grace stumbled to the window, peering out blearily. Her eyes widened in surprise when she saw Poppy. She pulled the curtains and pushed up the window.
“Whatever are you doing, girl?”
“Are you all right, Grace? There was no answer at the door and –”
“We’re both down with the flu. Haven’t had the energy to go downstairs.”
“But Dot –”
“Dot’s all right. Well, she’s got the flu too, but we’re managing.”
“If you open the door, Grace, I can come in and help you both. Cook you some breakfast.”
“No, no, I don’t think that’s wise. No use you getting the flu when you’ve just come back from convalescing. How was Leamington Spa?”
“Leamington Spa? What? Oh yes, the spa. It was lovely, thanks. I’ll be fine. Just open the door, please.”
But Grace was adamant. “I don’t think so, Poppy. Look, why don’t you see if Delilah can take you in for a day or two? Give us time to get back on our feet.”
Poppy suddenly remembered Sophie saying that Grace was the jealous type. Was Grace trying to keep her away from Dot? Was Dot all right? Had something happened to her and Grace was trying to cover it up?
But just as she was contemplating forcing her way in, she heard a croaky voice calling out, “What’s going on, Grace?”
“It’s Poppy. She wants to come in.”
“But she’ll get the flu! Tell her to go to Delilah’s.”
“I have. I’ve –” Grace broke off to hack out a series of coughs. She held
up her hand to Poppy. “Please, pet. Come back in a couple of days.”
“And tell her her father called from the Post Office. Did you hear that, Poppy?”
Poppy’s stomach clenched. “I heard you, Aunt Dot. What did he say?”
“He wanted to know how you are. I told him you were in Leamington Spa and you’d be in touch when you got back. He was none too happy that I’d let you go on your own. So I said to him –” Dot’s explanation was broken off by a hacking cough.
Poppy sighed. “All right, Grace. Tomorrow. I’ll come back tomorrow. Do you want me to bring you anything?”
Grace gave her a thin smile. “I think by then we’ll need some more bread. But we should be all right for today.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Right as rain. Now get down off that ladder before you do yourself an injury.”
“Give my love to Aunt Dot. And if Dad calls again, tell him I’ll arrange to speak to him from Delilah’s. I’ll telegraph him the number so he can book in the call.”
“I will. Keep well, pet.”
“And you get well. Both of you.”
Grace waved, then pulled down the window and drew the curtains closed again.
“Everything all right there?” called Mr Thompson.
Poppy wasn’t really sure.
“Hello, old thing! Whatever are you doing here?” Delilah stood in her doorway wearing a slinky black gown emblazoned with a red Chinese dragon.
Suddenly a man appeared behind her, gave her a kiss on her cheek and said, “I’ll see you later at rehearsal.”
“Adam, this is my friend Poppy. You know: the one I needed to borrow your motor to pick up from hospital?”
“Ah yes, the intrepid reporter. Are you all right now?”
“I am, thank you. But I need a place to stay. My aunt and Grace are down with the flu and have declared the whole house a quarantine zone. They suggested I come here, but…”
Delilah laughed. “Oh, Adam was just leaving, weren’t you, darling? He… well, he just popped around for breakfast!”
Adam, one of the most dashingly handsome men Poppy had ever seen, flashed a smile and said, “And a scrummy breakfast it was too. Excuse me, ladies. I’ll leave you to it.”
Poppy stepped aside to let him pass. He doffed his boater and then headed off down the stairs and into the street, lighting a cigarette and whistling a jolly tune.
Delilah gave a dramatic sigh. “Didn’t I tell you he was a dish?”
“Demetrius?”
“The very one. Come in, and I’ll tell you all about it. Do you want some coffee?”
“I’d love some!”
CHAPTER 25
An hour and a half later, Poppy had been served a full English breakfast with a side serving of the highlights of Delilah’s very complicated love life. In return she had given Delilah a blow-by-blow account of her trip to Paris. Delilah, smoking her third cigarette of the day, leaned back on her sofa and slowly exhaled. “Good heavens, Poppy. So what are you going to do now?”
Poppy curled up her feet under her and sipped another coffee. Although Delilah’s flat was luxurious – she clearly had a source of income beyond her meagre pay from the theatre – it managed to be comfortable and homely at the same time. Poppy felt the stresses and strains of the last week start to drain from her.
“Well, what I’d like to do is sleep for the rest of the day. But what I should do is try to find Frank Wilson. He’s the only living member of the Chelsea Six I haven’t spoken to yet. He might be able to fill in some of the gaps.”
“Frank Wilson. Golly, I haven’t seen him since my mother’s funeral.”
“Have you any idea where he is?”
“Not really, no. But my dad might. Let me give him a ring.”
Delilah uncurled from the sofa like a sleek black cat and padded her way across the parquet floor to a black lacquer and marble-topped sideboard. She picked up an ornate bronze telephone, styled like an Egyptian goddess, and dialled the number for the international operator. She asked to be connected to a number in Valetta, Malta, then waited to be put through.
Someone answered. Delilah launched into rapid Italian.
Delilah’s branch of the Marconi family hailed from Malta, which had a large Italian community. Delilah was born there and received her British citizenship, then moved to England with her family when she was six. Her father, Victor Marconi, was the nephew of the Nobel laureate Guglielmo Marconi – known to the family as Uncle Elmo. Uncle Elmo was the son of an Italian father and an Irish protestant mother, but he too settled in England and launched his world-famous wireless and telecommunications company. Now the first Marquis of Marconi, Uncle Elmo had opened doors to the best social circles for his extended family, but Delilah was quick to point out that the family money was all their own – from a string of hotels her father owned back in Malta.
Delilah ended with an effusive “Ciao Papa!” and put down the phone. She returned to the sofa with an address written on some notepaper and presented it to Poppy. “Frank Wilson. Peckham.”
“Is that far?”
“Not too bad. We can get the bus.” She pouted. “Adam said he won’t lend me his motor again until I’ve taken some lessons. Apparently I did something unforgiveable to his clutch.” She threw back her head and laughed at her own joke then jumped up, pulling her friend with her. “Come on, let’s get dressed.”
Poppy and Delilah checked and double checked the address as they stood outside a slum tenement building in North Peckham. Barefoot children used rain-filled potholes as paddling pools in the summer heat and the stench of festering rubbish was overwhelming. Poppy and Delilah had to duck under a clothes line slung low with stained nappies and pick their way through piles of dog faeces to get to the door. A woman answered, holding a screaming baby on her hip while two toddlers clung to her filthy apron. The woman shouted over the baby’s screams that Mr Wilson rented the room upstairs. She nodded to a narrow staircase set into the wall behind a coal shed that was almost empty. Poppy wondered if winter would bring any change. She handed over some coins to the woman for her trouble. If she’d expected any thanks, she didn’t get it.
Poppy also wondered if Delilah, with her privileged upbringing, had ever been exposed to such conditions. The Italian girl was wide-eyed and pale, but didn’t seem overwhelmed. Poppy had seen as much and worse during her time at the Methodist Mission in Morpeth and knew that the prosperity hoped for by so many now that the war was over would only ever reach a few. On the bus ride through Peckham she and Delilah had passed a dole office, where the queue, made up mainly of out-of-work ex-soldiers, stretched around the block. None of them would think kindly to womenfolk taking the few jobs available to them; and Poppy knew that the woman she had just met would never have the chance of starting a career – if she even aspired to one. She thanked God for her blessings.
When they got to the top of the stairs they saw a door that had been patched together more than once with odd planks of wood. It was loose on one hinge and leaned heavily on its latch. Poppy wondered if it would fall over if opened. She knocked gingerly, and waited for an answer.
None came. She knocked again. Eventually there was the sound of shuffling and muttering. The door opened a crack, its one good hinge creaking in protest. A gaunt, grey man with patchy facial hair and bloodshot eyes peered at them.
“Mr Wilson?”
“Who’s asking?”
“My name is Poppy Denby and –”
The door slammed shut.
“Mr Wilson!”
“Get lost! And tell that bitch to leave me alone. She’s taken enough from me.”
“But Mr Wilson –”
Delilah put her hand on Poppy’s arm. “Let me try.”
“Mr Wilson… Frank… it’s me: Delilah Marconi. Gloria’s girl.”
Silence.
“Can we come in, Frank? We need to talk to you. It’s about my mother.”
Silence.
“Ple
ase, Frank. I – I need your help.” This time there was a tearful note in Delilah’s voice. Poppy didn’t think the young actress was faking it. Neither, it seemed, did Frank, as the door opened and he let them in.
Poppy and Delilah were instantly assailed with the stench of urine and a sound of scuttling that caused both women to look at one another in alarm. The room was piled ceiling to floor with crates, boxes and sacks filled with books, newspapers and household items. A narrow channel had been left open to allow access from the door to the living area, which consisted of a small table piled high with unwashed dishes, two chairs draped in clothes, a small wood-burning stove and cooking range. A line of crates filled with empty spirit bottles separated the “bedroom” – a thin mattress on the floor – from the kitchen. Poppy wasn’t sure if the smell of alcohol in the air was a hangover from the night before or a fresh intake for breakfast.
Frank turned around and faced them. He was a tall, stooped man who might once have been described as dignified. But now his half-starved body in oversized clothes made him look like a scarecrow.
“What do you want?”
“Can we sit please, Mr Wilson?” Poppy asked.
“I was talking to her, not you.” Frank’s words dripped venom.
“This is Poppy, Frank; she’s Dot’s niece.”
“I can see that.”
“She has some questions. We – we both have some questions. About Gloria. Please, can we sit down?”
He shrugged. Delilah pulled out a chair; Poppy did the same. Frank stood for a moment chewing his lip, then overturned a crate with a clatter and sat down, arms folded across his thin chest.
“Look, Mr Wilson, I’m very sorry if anything happened between you and my aunt in the past,” Poppy began. “I had nothing to do with that. But I do want to find out what happened.”
“Why?”
“Well, I’m working for The Globe –”
The Jazz Files Page 19