Mornings in London

by Janice Law

  “I expect she didn’t know,” Poppy said. “Something for his work, I’d imagine. George isn’t important. But seeing him reminded me of Freddie. It gave me such a shock, and I thought I had to leave. Confirmed by tonight’s events.”

  I thought that George’s visit was almost certainly important, but before I could explain anything, she continued in a rush. “Tonight I ate in my hotel—death by boredom and boiled veggies—and when it got late, I started feeling down and guilty and thought about calling Mother. I was in the kiosk and ready to dial when I saw the man in the brown suit.

  “The same man with something about his walk. The kiosk light was on, so he had to see me, and I didn’t want to be trapped in the box. I sprinted into a crowd and onto the pier. I thought I’d lost him. I was set to go back to my hotel when I almost walked smack into him in the crush. Luckily, he was looking in the opposite direction. I hopped the rail and ran down the beach. Where you called to me.” She reached out and pressed my hand. “A sight for sore eyes, Francis.”

  Chapter 10

  Poppy and I sat shivering together and talked through the night. Or most of it. I didn’t hear Ernie’s footsteps approaching, and I only surfaced from oblivion at a knock on the door. Thin bands of light were sliding through cracks in the siding, and a gray morning crept over the sill. “Ernie?”

  It opened. “Better be on your way,” he said.

  Poppy stood up, smoothed her dress, stiff like my trousers with dried salt, and checked the daylight. “How far to the station?”

  “Couple miles, but you can get a lift on one of the goods trucks. The drivers’ll stop for a pretty girl any day.”

  We thanked Ernie and shook hands before he headed off to his ship with a wave. “You picked a very decent pirate,” Poppy said. “You must have a better eye than I have.”

  She sounded so down, so unlike herself, that I said, “A lot of people were fooled by Freddie.”

  “That’s just it. I’ve been thinking over what you told me last night.”

  I can see why Catholics pick little closets for confession. Darkness, silence, and isolation are great encouragements to candor, and we’d had a general exchange of confidences. I’d told her about the autopsy findings and my lunch with Signor Rinaldi and the damage to the design studio.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Francis! Poor Nan! I’ve gotten you into a pile of trouble.”

  I had to agree. When she got angry about the photo negatives, I reminded her that she’d left me to do my best. “Not good enough, Francis,” she said and added other angry things, too, so that I curled up on the floor and did my best to go to sleep. But as we walked along the shore road, hoping for a lift, she returned to the topic. Though quick to anger, Poppy is basically fair-minded. “I was furious at first that you’d kept those negatives instead of turning them over to the police,” she said. “Now I’m not sure I would have, either. It’s terrible to lose trust in old friends.”

  I was interested to know just which friends had become unreliable, but a truck was approaching. Poppy ran a hand through her hair, stepped to the curb, and stuck out her thumb.

  “Nicely done,” I said as the brakes went on.

  “Mother’s right, always look like a lady.”

  I must have looked dodgy, for while there was room in front for Poppy, yours truly rode in the back with a cargo of turnips and onions. Poppy returned my jacket, so I was only semifrozen when we reached the station. I helped the driver unload his vegetables while Poppy checked the train times and bought all three of us cups of tea and bacon sandwiches.

  Once on the London train, we had decisions to make. “What do you think I should do?” Poppy asked.

  “Call your mother and go home?”

  She sighed. “I feel so guilty about worrying her, but if I call, I’ll surely be dealing with the police again. You think they believe me innocent, but they could easily have lied to you. And if you are right about Inspector Davis—”

  “I don’t know that I am.”

  “I think you might be. I’ve been wondering about the major’s behavior. He and Eveline could have put off the Tollmans and the Groves if he’d been worried. Or he could have said that they had a party coming and there was no room for us to stay. Instead, he had Jenkins drive me to that isolated convalescent home. Besides, either he or Eveline lied about who found the blouse.”

  “A plant if there ever was one.”

  “Exactly. But stupid. That’s what I can’t figure out. Major Larkin was a military intelligence officer, a professional. Did you know that?”

  “Lizzie mentioned that your father was in military intelligence. I guessed that might have been his connection with Major Larkin.”

  “That’s right, and the major is, how did he put it, ‘still semiactive,’ whatever that means. Surely if he was trying to implicate me, he could have come up with something more convincing.” She was silent for a few minutes. “So I don’t know what to think, and I’m not sure about going home. Or to my flat.”

  “Definitely not to the flat. I told you the building was being watched.”

  “Lizzie lives at home, but George has rooms.” She bit her lip. “A week ago, I’d just have called Lizzie and made plans to stay for a few days with George.”

  I didn’t need to tell her that was no longer a good idea.

  “Lizzie was my best school friend.” Her voice was sad.

  “She did want to find you. She really was anxious when you didn’t call again.”

  “I’m sure she was, Francis, but for what reason? She and George are very close. That’s one thing. And the other is his visit to Hastings. A work meeting? Possibly. But at a seaside resort? Even a day ago I’d have said an innocent visit, now I doubt him and the whole house party—except for you, Francis.”

  I took her hand for a minute. “What do you know about George’s work?”

  “Electrical engineering. I know that’s his profession. I don’t really know what that entails . . .”

  “Are you sure, Poppy? Lizzie said you’d become alarmed about Freddie’s activities.”

  “Wasn’t taking dirty pictures and selling them alarming?”

  “You were surprised when I told you about that after his death. Something else must have led you to speak to Major Larkin.”

  Poppy looked out the window. After a bit she said, “You know I’m thoroughly ignorant, Francis. Sometimes people mistake that for stupidity.”

  “Was Freddie one of them?”

  “I’m afraid so. George, too. They were good pals. I didn’t think anything of that because George and Lizzie and I had run around together for years. Then Freddie appeared and fitted right in. So fun.”

  She didn’t speak again for several minutes, putting her thoughts in order or deciding what to tell me. “I’m not supposed to discuss any of this,” she said finally. “The major made that quite clear.”

  I bet he did. “I already know the half of it . . .”

  “Right. And the major failed to make good arrangements.”

  Momentarily, Poppy sounded so much like her mother that I wondered if I was destined to turn into my father at some future moment. Life is full of frightening possibilities.

  “He involved his friend Inspector Davis, who has connections with counterintelligence,” Poppy continued. “I think that was even before Freddie’s death. In fact, I know it was, because the major said more than once that his contacts wanted to know this or that. He was always hoping I would turn up something useful.”

  “Any specific area?”

  She shook her head. “They had their eyes on Freddie, but they didn’t really know which way to look, I don’t think. All I could tell them was that Freddie had been after George for information. He asked so casually that I didn’t catch on at first. He just had lots of supposedly friendly questions, How’s the project going? Still deep in invisible
rays? That sort of thing, but he was being a little too persistent, and I realized that George was unhappy and tense around Freddie—no more good old school friends. Though I was angry when you disapproved of Freddie, I began to notice that.”

  “Was he looking for information—or could he have been warning George, given that you were present?”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “By publicly mentioning George’s work, was Freddie maybe hinting at some leverage?”

  “Possibly. You’re right that I didn’t know then about Freddie’s blackmail attempts. But I noticed some other things.”

  “Including Signor Rinaldi?”

  “He was around, yes. He called Freddie’s flat a couple of times, and if I answered, he pretended he’d called the wrong number. I recognized his accent just the same. So that was one thing. I mean, you can admire Mussolini, can’t you, without getting involved with sneaky Italian diplomats?”

  “I can’t admire anyone with that much braid on his uniform.”

  Poppy slapped my knee and laughed before turning serious again. “Freddie had mysterious meetings, too, and I heard him arguing with George one day. I listened outside the door—you can see by that how uneasy I’d become.”

  “You’re more the summon-the-troops-and-mount-the-charge type,” I agreed.

  Poppy nodded. “I could tell that he was threatening George, and I almost decided to have it out with him. But when I came in, he said, George is really too selfish about that damn car.”

  “You accepted that?”

  “I wanted to. I was really quite, quite besotted. More fool me. And maybe him, too. He might be alive yet if I’d spoken up.”

  “He was in a high-risk business.”

  She nodded unhappily without responding.

  “And Rinaldi?”

  “You were wrong about him. Well, I lied to you, so you would have been. When I caught them in the garden, I’m sure that sex wasn’t on their minds. At least, not at that moment. They were having a heated argument, and Freddie was saying that he wanted money, a lot of money.”

  “Rinaldi offered me a hundred pounds.”

  “I’m sure that Freddie would have asked for more, much more. I distinctly heard him say . . . absolutely vital for the air forces, and he claimed he had a contact at the design level.”

  I’d guessed right—with a little help from Nan. “Ever hear of something called a cavity magnetron? Or microwaves?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Never heard of either, but George was not forthcoming about his work. Do you think that microwaves were the ‘invisible rays’ Freddie was asking about?”

  “I’m guessing it’s what he was selling, but I need to have the negatives printed. I don’t like the idea of a commercial shop, though. I think we’d be better to find someone at least semiofficial.”

  “Not the major! We can’t ask him, not if we’re not sure.”

  “Inspector Davis is doubtful, too.”

  “Even if you didn’t think he or one of his people tipped off Rinaldi, he’s too close to Major Larkin,” Poppy agreed.

  We sat, listening to the monotony of the wheels, before I mentioned Nan’s idea about Uncle Lastings.

  “Uncle Lastings!” she exclaimed with an expression of distaste. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told Poppy anything about our adventures in Berlin.

  “He will know how to deal with the photos,” I said.

  “Well, from what you’ve said, he is a man for all weather. He is your side of the family, of course.”

  Poppy again sounded disagreeably like her mother. “It may take time to locate him and to get everything organized. In the meantime, you’ll need a place to stay outside of your usual set. I may know the right people, but the operative word is may; I’ll have to talk to them.”

  “Do I sense complications?”

  She didn’t know the half of it, and I was determined to keep things that way. “When we get into London, let your mother know that you’re not lying dead in Sussex. I’ll call my friends and see about getting you situated, and then, yes, I think I must contact our uncle.” Emphasis, you’ll note, on our. She wasn’t going to lop Uncle Lastings from her family tree quite so easily.

  “And clothes, Francis. I smell like a salted fish and I could kill for a warm coat and a change of clothing.”

  An unfortunate turn of phrase. I must remind her to drop the homicidal exaggerations. “Nan might manage that. She claims no one notices an old lady.”

  “Ask her, please, to get some of my clothes from Mother. If she does that, I won’t have to call.” Seeing my face, she added, “Not cowardice, not entirely; it’s in case anyone is listening.”

  Was that likely? I wondered. Could someone official or unofficial be even now thrilling to Aunt Theresa’s critique of the latest butcher’s meat or her struggles with members of the bridge circle? It seemed implausible, as implausible as the fact my frivolous cousin had thought of it, and yet— “All right, but all that will have to wait until we can get back to the studio.”

  We arrived, bedraggled, cold, and tired, at Victoria. Poppy was nervous and so was I, although logic said the police could not watch every single train from Sussex. In the event, we left the carriage with the commuter traffic and exited the station unnoticed by officialdom. When Poppy saw a small dress shop nearby, she insisted on buying a new blouse and skirt and a cheap cloche while I stood about courting rheumatics in my still damp trousers.

  “You look like a shopgirl,” I said when she emerged, newly kitted out.

  She glanced at her reflection in a display window and pulled the hat farther down over her brow. “Perfect, don’t you think? As long as I keep my mouth shut, who would recognize me?”

  Who indeed, and we agreed that it would be safe for her to go to the studio. Avant Design was shut up tight with a new lock, but Nan was in residence. After she fussed over us for a few minutes, she ran through the various arrangements, concluding with the news that Mr. Mendelssohn could do the chair repairs anytime.

  I decided to take them right away. Poppy wanted Nan to fetch her clothes, but I didn’t trust Aunt Theresa’s discretion. I argued for waiting until Poppy was safe elsewhere, and we went back and forth on this until Nan’s offer of hot water for a bath settled the issue. I fetched a cab, loaded my damaged chairs, and set out for Mendelssohn’s place in Hackney, a three-story building with flats above an old-fashioned storefront with handsome iron columns. I noticed that the big plateglass window had a crack through one corner and that a piece of plywood was affixed above the door. Not good signs. I set off a bell as I entered and hauled the chairs into a narrow room with a counter, a cash register, a calendar, a map of London, and a doorway to what looked to be a substantial workshop.

  Muriel answered the bell. “Francis!” I got a kiss. “And here’s the damage!” She turned each chair and inspected it as carefully as if she’d been in furniture manufacturing half her life instead of cavorting in heels, sequins, and feathers. “Leather’s a total loss. We’ll scrap it up for eyeglass cases, that sort of thing. Oh, yes, nothing’s too small. Waste not. But the frames look all right, nothing more than a few scratches. We know Sokolof; he does careful work with good material. You were lucky there, Francis.”

  She assured me that Ben would see the chairs were mended and produced their leather samples for my selection. I’d just made my choice when her husband appeared from the back, a long black work apron over his dress shirt and tie. He seemed pleased to see me, though I thought that he looked both thinner and more anxious. He checked the chairs and shook his head. “Terrible,” he said.

  “Small potatoes compared to Germany,” I said.

  “But how it starts, Francis. How it starts.”

  “Yes. We need to talk,” I said. “I need a favor that you might consider. In return, I might be able to help with your situation, though honestly
it would be a very long shot.”

  Ben looked at me for a moment and shrugged. “What do we have except long shots? But we must have tea first. That is the English way, yes?”

  I said that would be lovely. Muriel plugged in the kettle and Ben brought some chairs so that we could sit down. We spoke of nothing of substance until Muriel had filled our cups and handed out biscuits. I’d been mulling over how best to proceed, but when the time came, I took the straightforward route.

  “You read about Freddie Bosworth’s death, so you’ll know he was engaged. To my favorite cousin.”

  They looked shocked.

  “Yes. A foolish move on her part. But here’s the thing . . .” I outlined the events that had led to her exile at the seashore with a broken arm, scratched-up legs, and the threat of a prosecution for murder. “Though I think that’s unlikely, I am sure you can see the danger to her even so.”

  “You believe that Bosworth hid something in her possessions?” Muriel sounded doubtful.

  “I know he did, because I found it.” I explained that Freddie had branched out from sexual blackmail to what I guessed were stolen scientific documents.

  Ben looked puzzled and Muriel added something in rapid German.

  “Ah, for the Nazis?” Ben asked.

  “I think rather for the Italians. His contact from the Italian embassy, a Signor Rinaldi, drugged me at lunch, and I assume it was his paid thugs who stole my keys in order to trash my studio and frighten Nan.”

  “They are all fascists,” Ben said.

  “Right you are. A couple things are odd, though. Freddie was killed before he handed over the information.” I described his abrupt departure and added that everyone, except Poppy and me, had an alibi of sorts, mostly from one another or from members of the domestic staff.

  “Very convenient,” said Muriel.

  “Almost too convenient. For example, Tollman and Grove were apparently playing billiards all afternoon with Signor Rinaldi.”

  “Grove,” exclaimed Ben in agitation. “Basil Grove, the furniture distributor?”