Poppy was young, but she was not simple. She knew what a man meant if he invited you home. She had suspected all along that this was behind Jack's generosity. Still, she thought as she walked at his side along Regent Street with the box under her arm, it was a gratifying way to go. No-one could say she was cheap.
And he was quite a handsome fellow.
He took her to a Georgian terrace with a view across Hyde Park. The walls were papered white and silver. There were Chinese lacquer cabinets and oriental rugs. There was a woman standing by the fireplace with a King Charles spaniel in her arms. She was in a dress of pleated silk with a posy of parma violets on her left shoulder. She was elegant.
'Poppy, this is Kate,' Jack said, and he was grinning as he added, 'My adoring wife.'
'So you're the fingersmith,' said Kate in a voice that fell short of her appearance. 'You don't look a bit like one.'
'That's why she's the best,' said Jack. He had a decanter in his hand. 'What do you like with your gin, Poppy?'
'I take it neat, thank you.'
'You can't do that, my dear,' said Kate firmly. 'Let her try it with tonic, Jack.'
Poppy took the glass and it made her sneeze. 'I'll never pass as upper class, if that's what you are hoping,' she told them.
'You'll be perfect as you are,' said Jack, and to Kate he added, 'She looks divine in the dress.'
Kate asked to see it, so they unwrapped it and Poppy held it against herself.
'It's very bold,' Kate commented. 'Did you choose it yourself, dear?'
Poppy decided to ignore the question. She felt waves of jealousy from Kate, but she could understand the reason for them. She put the dress back in its box and said, 'Aren't you going to tell me what you want me for?'
'I'll show you,' answered Jack. 'Choose one.' Apparently from nowhere, a pack of playing cards opened into a perfect fan shape in his right hand.
Poppy took a card. 'Do I tell you what it is?'
He nodded.
'Seven of hearts.'
He squared the pack and cut it. 'Put it back now.'
She watched him cover the card with part of the pack. He cut it several times. 'Now can you find your card?'
'Is it the top one?'
He shook his head.
'He's taken you in,' said Kate, it isn't there.'
Poppy took the pack and searched for the seven of hearts. She went slowly through the cards. It was not among them.
'That's a marvellous trick! So you're a conjurer.'
'No.' He picked up the cards and fanned them again. 'Choose any one you like.'
She found that she had picked the seven of hearts. 'Blimey!'
'You should have watched his left hand,' said Kate in a bored voice. 'He palmed it.'
Jack said, 'Watch.' He dealt two hands of five onto a glass-topped table. 'Look at yours.'
She had the eight, nine, ten, jack and queen of clubs.
'I just dealt you a straight flush,' he said. 'What would you stake on that, Poppy? Your new dress? Better not. Mine's a royal.' He turned over the ace, king, queen, jack and ten of diamonds. 'No, I'm not a conjurer. I know a few tricks, yes, but I don't do them to amuse. I make my living playing cards, and so does Kate. It's money for jam when you can work the pack.'
'Oh, no,' said Poppy in embarrassment.
'What's the matter?'
'You bought me that dress because you want some help?'
'Well, yes.'
'Jack, you picked the wrong girl. I can't play cards to save my blooming life.'
9
In the morning there was a violent incident in the florist's next to Richmond Station. A woman in a jade green velvet hat and a black coat with beaver trimming entered the shop a few minutes after it had opened. Alma was selecting blooms for the window. She recognized Lydia Baranov from her photographs. The face had lost the girlish softness of Trilby at the Theatre Royal, Windsor, and the fragility of Dora Vane in The Harbour Lights, but it still had an elegance of shape, a confidence of expression, emphatically theatrical.
In bed the night before, Alma had slowly turned the pages of the scrapbook. If she had hoped to find some portrait of Walter as a younger man, on his wedding day, or in a soldier's uniform, she was disappointed. It was exclusively a record of Lydia's life in the theatre, most of it pre-war. She had brought it back this morning in a canvas shopping-bag, covered with a knitted scarf in case of rain. It was hanging on the trellis behind her.
Alma was used to being treated as a menial by customers, particularly women. To them she was a shopgirl. She expected them to sniff the flowers and ask how much they cost without a glance in her direction. She expected them to tap their gloved fingers on the counter when another customer was being served. She expected them to pick over the bunches they had chosen and insist that certain blooms were replaced with fresher ones. But she was unprepared for Lydia Baranov.
It was firmly in Alma's mind that she was going to the surgery at lunchtime with the scrapbook. She was going to hand it personally to Walter.
So when Lydia swept in and demanded her book, Alma hesitated.
'Which book do you mean, madam?'
'Don't you dare be insolent to me.'
'I'm sorry, madam, but I don't recall meeting you before.'
Lydia said as if she were speaking to an imbecile, 'My husband Mr Baranov left it here yesterday evening.'
Alma knew she would have to hand it over. She turned to get it. She realised with disquiet that she would have to explain what it was doing in her shopping-bag. She was about to say that she had put it there this morning with the aim of delivering it to Mr Baranov's surgery, when Lydia grasped her by the arm.
'What have you got there? What on earth is my book doing in that shopping-bag?'
Without waiting for an answer, she wrenched the bag from Alma, snatched out the scrapbook and flung the bag and scarf across the shop. They hit a vase of gladioli in the window and tipped it over. Water streamed across the floor. Lydia paid no attention to it. She grabbed at Alma as she came round the counter to pick up the vase. She gripped the collar of her blouse and forced her against the counter.
'It's obvious what you've been up to. You took my book home last night to look at it. That's a violation, an invasion of my privacy. It was a vile, disgusting thing to do.' She slapped Alma hard across the face.
When Mrs Maxwell, the owner of the shop, arrived at 10.15, the vase of gladioli was replaced on its pedestal in the window. The floor had been wiped over with a cloth. She complimented Alma. A few minutes' work with a cloth and bucket in the morning freshened the shop for the rest of the day. It was always worth the effort. Mrs Maxwell looked at Alma and saw that her cheek was pink. She decided that the girl was blushing. It had long been a maxim of Mrs Maxwell's that a word of praise was the best bonus an employer could award.
Alma was saying nothing. She was determined not to mention the incident with Lydia Baranov. She had suffered humiliation and assault, but she did not need sympathy. A short time after Lydia had slapped her face and left the shop with her scrapbook held to her chest, Alma had felt a sensation that was not unpleasant. The blood had risen to her cheek to fill the capillaries. The stinging was subdued by a stimulating glow. Alma had concluded that Lydia was a desperate woman who had lost her husband's love.
When things were quiet in the shop, Alma was expected to assemble sprays and wreaths in the room at the back. Towards lunchtime she was wiring sprigs of holly into a funeral cross when she overheard a voice she knew. Walter Baranov was speaking to Mrs Maxwell in the front of the shop.
Alma waited breathlessly.
Mrs Maxwell looked round the door and told Alma that a gentleman had asked to see her about a personal matter. There was a note of censure in her voice. She said Alma had better take an early lunch.
It was hardly credible that a few minutes later she was strolling in the sunshine on Richmond Green with Walter. She kept snatching glances at familiar things to be sure that it was true: the pigeons
on the cricket square, the line of elms, the green dome of the theatre, the alleyways between the tall Georgian buildings.
There was strong concern in Walter's voice. The strain showed in the taut muscles of his cheeks and neck and the way his usually square shoulders were slightly hunched. Yet he remained dignified, the more attractive to Alma for taking on this burden of apologising for an offence that was not his own. i came as soon as I could,' he told her. 'Lydia — my wife — spoke to me on the telephone at the surgery. She said she struck you. Is that right?'
She answered as calmly as she could, ‘I think she was very upset. She saw her scrapbook in my bag. She must have assumed I had taken it home to look at it.'
'I know, I know — but she should never have slapped your face.' He turned towards her and almost touched her arm with his left hand in a gesture of concern. 'Are you all right?'
'Perfectly. I was more shocked than hurt — embarrassed, really.'
'She didn't damage your clothes? I believe there was water spilt.'
There wasn't any damage, and I haven't mentioned it to anyone.'
'That's more than we have a right to expect. Miss Webster, I don't know how to thank you enough.'
With the sudden recklessness of a true woman of spirit, she said, 'You could call me Alma.'
He half-turned and their eyes met for a moment. He looked startled, jolted out of his prepared demeanour. He was definitely intrigued. As if to restore the proper conventions he quickly brought his hands together. 'Look here … Alma … I want to explain how this ghastly thing could have happened. It's the very least I can do.'
'There's no need.'
'I insist. You must do me the honour of dining with me. Is tomorrow night convenient? I believe there's a good French restaurant on the Hill. It should be quiet. We can talk in confidence there.'
Her heart raced madly, yet she managed to accept with dignity. She told him her address and he promised to call for her. His eyes were shining now and his bearing seemed more jaunty. He raised his hat and strode away in the direction of the station.
Alma continued walking across the Green, yielding at last to that quivering excitement, that unutterable joy that she had only ever known before as the printed words on a page. What marvellous compensation for a slapped face! She had an invitation to dinner with the man she loved. The fact that he was married simply added to her triumph. She had done nothing underhand. Whatever followed was the price Lydia would pay for her breach of decorum.
Humming softly, she walked back to the hairdresser's in Duke Street and made an appointment. When she got back to the shop and Mrs Maxwell remarked that she disapproved of her assistants receiving gentlemen friends at the shop, Alma replied evenly that it was most unlikely to occur again.
10
Walter came to the house at 7.30 next evening. Alma had asked the housemaid Bridget to stay late enough to admit him. At her dressing table she heard the voices downstairs. She dabbed her neck with essence of stephanotis. She stood up and smoothed the line of her tawny yellow crepe charmeuse gown. She fingered her necklace of dark amber beads. She was ready. It was the most momentous evening of her life, and she was calm and in control. Such serenity in a woman would surely be a revelation to Walter.
She put her cape around her shoulders and went downstairs to greet him. Bridget had poured him a pale dry sherry. He was studiously formal. He took a step towards Alma and bowed his head and called her Miss Webster. The pale blue of his eyes was a shade deeper this evening. In the white tie of evening dress he could have been a concert pianist or a diplomat. A ruby was inset in each of his gold cufflinks.
He had reserved a table in the Black Grape, only fifty yards down the Hill. She passed it every morning when the shutters were down. Sometimes in the evening when she returned from work there were candles alight at the tables and she could see silver salt and pepper pots and red napkins shaped like water lilies. She had never been inside.
They were shown to a corner position and the table was pulled out for them to take their places. As the waiter pushed it back, covering their knees, Alma had the extravagant thought that it was not unlike being tucked into bed. They were handed menus. She understood the French, but she let Walter take her through it. He asked the waiter his name and then instructed him to tell the chef that Miss Alma Webster and Mr Walter Baranov were dining in the restaurant that evening.
'They don't know me here,' Alma whispered as the waiter left with the order.
'They will in future,' Walter said without lowering his voice. 'They don't know me either, but they feel that they should do, and that makes the difference between first class service and mere sufferance. Now, Alma, I must thank you for your tact and consideration.'
She frowned slightly. 'I'm not sure what you mean.'
He looked quite severe as he said, 'Don't you dare deny, young lady, that you could easily have read the menu for yourself.'
Alma blushed like a guilty child. She liked his masterful manner. It was straight out of The Way of an Eagle. 'How did you guess?'
'I didn't guess, my dear. I watched your eyes. Before the war I earned a meagre living as a mind-reader in the music halls. Nine-tenths of the act was trickery, but you can train yourself to learn certain things by observation. For example, did you know that someone has been talking about us?'
'Oh?'
A waiter had appeared and was speaking from behind her. 'Compliments of the manager, Mr Baranov. He would like to offer you and the lady a glass of champagne.'
'Which we are happy to accept,' said Walter. 'Do thank him, won't you?' To Alma, he said, 'You see?'
'I'm very impressed.'
'I was about to tell you that by studying people's eyes and watching the way they react and noting whether they anticipate remarks, I can find out things they didn't mean to tell me.'
She laughed. 'I shall have to be more careful.'
'You needn't worry. I don't learn very much, or by now I would have made a fortune playing poker.'
'How did you become a mind-reader?'
'It was because I had no sense of balance. I couldn't walk a tightrope like my father. I couldn't ride a monocycle or juggle or throw knives into a board. You see, the way of life in the halls more or less dictates that the children of performers get before the footlights. There's precious little chance to learn anything else. I was a magician's plant when I was eight years old.'
'A plant?'
Walter's eyes twinkled. 'Not a geranium. A plant is an assistant posing as a member of the audience. It isn't easy for a small boy to sit still with a rabbit and two doves secreted under his jacket. I stuck it for a couple of years until I was old enough to get taken on by a mind-reader. I was still a plant.'
'But still not a geranium?' put in Alma.
'More of a forget-me-not, I suppose,' said Walter, returning her smile, it was more congenial work, and I learned enough about it to start an act of my own when I was seventeen. Walter Baranov, Clairvoyant and Mind-Reader Extraordinary.'
'It sounds very impressive.'
'I wish the act had been equal to the billing. I have to confess, Alma, that I was never very good on the stage. Something happened to me when I got in front of audiences. Not stage-fright — rather the reverse, in fact. I got over-confident, and things went wrong. Instead of speaking my patter, I extemporised, and nine times out of ten I made a hash of the mechanical things essential to the performance. The best performers are the ones who shake like jellies before they go on. I was never like that.'
'I'm sure it wasn't half so bad as you describe it.'
'My dear, it was grotesque. I carried on for years, but only thanks to the generosity of music hall managers doing favours for my father. That was how I first met Lydia. Her father owned the Streatham Empire, you know. Lydia was between engagements as an actress, and to amuse herself she joined the act as my assistant. Within a week she transformed it. What success we had then!' Walter's eyes were shining. He shook his head, smiling at the memory.<
br />
Alma felt a spasm of jealousy, and suppressed it. 'How exactly did she change the act?'
'She said it needed drama, so she sat among the audience and pretended to be sceptical of my powers. She announced that I was a fake. You should have heard the audience cheering when she left her seat and marched up the gangway to the stage to expose my trickery. And when my first attempt at clairvoyance was a failure, they stood up and applauded Lydia. Then there was utter silence as the next test worked. Such drama! Lydia's reactions were magnificent, worthy of melodrama at its best. While she was saucer-eyed with disbelief, I kept my mind on the performance, and finished it in style. At the end they cheered me to the echo.'
'And you married Lydia.'
He snapped out of his reverie. 'There was more to it than that.'
Alma waited, not wishing to seem as inquisitive as she felt.
'I played at the Empire for a week with Lydia and then we parted,' said Walter. 'She had other work in the legitimate theatre. So I returned to my less-than-brilliant mind-reading without her. It was quite depressing, but I had to scrape a living, and I knew no other. Then Lydia's father died and left her a considerable fortune, four theatres and two music halls. She was very busy as an actress, and management was all too much for her, yet she took it on gamely. She remembered me and engaged me at the Canterbury.' He laughed, i must have been terrible. She persuaded me to give it up and marry her. She financed my training as a dentist. She said the world needed dentists more than mind-readers.'
Alma could not contain herself. 'Excuse me for saying this, but you make your marriage sound like a business arrangement.'
He sprinkled pepper on his fillet of veal. 'Yes, that's what it is.'
There was silence between them. Alma dared not press him further, yet her mind was racing ahead.
At last he said, 'Perhaps you think I married her for her money.'
'Of course not.' She blushed deeply. 'I'm sure you love each other.'
The False Inspector Dew Page 5