by Joan Lock
The missing women from Bow and Holland Park seemed to be the most promising so he set to work on those making notes for the Clerk Sergeant to copy in his fine script for the replies. He had barely begun when a messenger popped his head around the door.
‘There’s a woman downstairs wanting to see someone working on the canal murder – something about a missing sister. She looks angry.’
That took the biscuit, thought Best. ‘She’s not the only one!’ he exploded, banging down one of the letters. ‘I’m sick of people wasting my time. I’m angry too!’ He got up and stamped out, causing his colleague to smile after him affectionately. That foreign blood again.
Chapter Eight
Best strode into the interview-room. His irritation at the interruption propelled him forward too fast, startling the small, neatly dressed woman sitting by the bare wooden table. Their eyes met, his impatient, hers puzzled.
‘I’m Sergeant Best,’ he snapped out more sharply than he intended. ‘What can I do to help you, Mrs–’
She stiffened ‘And I’m Miss Franks,’ she replied coldly. ‘Miss Helen Franks. But then if you had read my letter you would have known that, wouldn’t you?’
‘We receive a great many letters, Miss Franks,’ he retorted, still trying to get his brakes to grip properly, ‘and I must tell you that we are extremely busy trying to solve this murder.’
‘All the more reason, I suggest, that you read your post. The answer might be contained within.’
‘That’s very doubtful!’ They glared at each other. ‘I assure you, Miss Franks,’ he went on, with some venom, ‘that Scotland Yard’s post is read very thoroughly, your letter included.’
It was dawning on him that this must be the woman from, Holland Park whose sister was missing. Probably one of those ladies of leisure who had nothing to do but contemplate her own affairs. ‘May I suggest that because nothing is seen to have been done, you need not presume that nothing has been!’
An icy silence reigned between them. Best knew he had probably gone too far and she might have influential friends who would complain to the commissioner, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself. This impasse was ridiculous, though, and unprofessional. He was about to utter a more placatory phrase when she beat him to it by saying in a still firm but less hostile tone, ‘I can see that you are harassed, Sergeant, so I will make allowances. But you must understand that I am extremely worried about my sister and need your help.’
Best held up his hand in a manner of half capitulation and inclined his head further, to suggest a truce. He was not a petty man. ‘Of course. I will do all I can.’ He sat down opposite her, took out his notepad and pencil and said, ‘Right, Miss Franks, tell me about your sister.’
‘I’d better tell you about both of us,’ she replied, looking him directly in the eye in a manner unusual for a woman, ‘then you will be able to grasp the whole picture.’ She paused for a moment to gather her thoughts then began, ‘My sister, Matilda, is nineteen years old. We live together in a small house in Holland Park. Our parents are dead.’ Extending her hand slightly to ward off sympathetic noises she went on dispassionately, ‘And whilst we are fortunate that my father left few debts, he left us very little money either. Thus, we two ladies, educated to expect a life of relative leisure, are obliged to work.’ She gave him a sharp look. ‘I assure you that that is not an idea which disturbs me, Mr Best. In fact, I would welcome it, were employment opportunities for women similar to those for men.’
She was no beauty, thought Best, but her features were pleasant enough. He wondered why she had never married, she must be at least thirty.
‘But fate has smiled on me in one respect,’ she went on. ‘Like many women of leisure I studied art when I was younger, and found I had a certain facility. Since I had no wish to become a governess,’ – she spat out the word – ‘I took up art again after father’s death – in the hope of gaining some financial return.’
She was one of those women artists! The idea excited Best. Even the Graphic published drawings by women, occasionally. You certainly got to meet all kinds of people in this job. But why was she so prim and pedantic? Artists were supposed to be free spirits.
‘I have been moderately successful, despite the fact–’ She stopped herself. ‘Oh, never mind that – too far from the point. Suffice to say that women are not allowed to attend life classes in London, but can do so in Paris. As I needed the experience, I went there – five weeks ago.’
‘And your sister?’
She gave him a bleak look. ‘My sister stayed here.’
There was a short silence which she ended by continuing, ‘Our limited means prevented both of us going and she had plenty to do selling my pictures.’
Best couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘She goes around alone, selling your pictures?’
‘Good heavens, no. She always takes our housekeeper or a relative with her. She has no skills, you see, but is very pretty, and this can be a great advantage in selling pictures to gallery owners who are, of course, all men. She was very shy at first. But, since my father died, we have both had to make sacrifices and accept challenges. I am very proud of her.’
Best’s spirits were rising again. They had an art connection!
‘Do you know St John’s Wood?’
‘Of course.’ Her eyes lit up and, for the first time, her response was spontaneous. ‘The Land of the Artists!’
‘Do you know anyone there?’
She nodded. ‘Several people – and I took lessons from Lawrence Alma-Tadema and his wife. Not quite my style, but useful experience nonetheless. She’s the better artist, I think, but–’ She pulled herself up again.
‘Did Matilda ever go there?’
‘No. At least I don’t think so.’ She looked anxious. ‘I can’t remember her doing so …’
‘Don’t worry about it, Miss Franks. If she did, I’m sure it will come to you later. Now, when did she go missing?’
Tears started into her grey eyes. ‘That’s just it. I don’t know. I wasn’t here. But it seems as though …’ – she found it difficult to get the next bit out – ‘as though it was the day before the canal explosion!’ Now, the tears were unstoppable. She groped about in her leather satchel for a handkerchief. Best gave her the immaculate folded one from his breast pocket. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she said, angrily, ‘and helps no one.’
‘It’s only human, Miss Franks,’ he said gently. ‘And it does help me to accept that you are genuine.’
She choked. ‘Genuine! Good God, man, you are not telling me that people make this kind of thing up!’
He nodded. ‘Makes them feel important. Gets them attention.’
She gazed at him in astonishment. ‘Unbelievable!’
‘But do go on. Tell me what your sister looked like.’
‘I’ve brought a photograph.’ She fished in a large, plush handbag. ‘It was taken two years ago but …’ She held it out to him.
He stopped her, ‘You do realize that the victim’s face was very badly disfigured?’
‘I didn’t, no. No, I didn’t know that.’ She was stumbling. ‘But surely…?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. I’ll look at it of course but …’
She pushed it into his hand. The setting was commonplace: potted plant on plinth, draped curtains. The pose equally so. Young girl in her Sunday best, shy but proud. Matilda was obviously fair, like the victim, young and slight also but he really had no idea whether it was the same young woman that he had last seen decomposing on the mortuary slab at St Marylebone Workhouse. He shook his head again. ‘I don’t know.’
‘There must be something?’
‘Had she any marks, scars?’
‘On her left cheek – a mole.’
He shook his head again.
‘The girl’s cheek was too disfigured?’ She forced out the words as she contemplated the horror of them.
He filled the silence quickly. ‘Have you any idea what she was wearing?’
‘The only clothing that I can be certain is missing is a pale-blue ensemble.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘She looked so pretty in that. It showed off her colouring and … what’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ Best cursed himself, he must try to keep more control on his expression.
‘There is – but there was nothing in the notice about the victim wearing a blue dress.’
‘You’re right. But, I must be honest.’ Too late to be anything else, he thought. ‘It’s just that among the letters I was reading when you arrived, is one about a pretty young lady in a pale-blue dress. Wait here.’
He returned with the letter and they read it together. On a folded, upright oblong of paper headed with a cryptic, Carlton, St James’s, it began, My dear Henderson. In typically careless, aristocratic scrawl, it went on, I happened to be in Regent’s Park the night before the explosion. Saw a damned pretty girl in light blue hurrying towards Macclesfield Bridge. Like woman found in canal had fair hair and pale skin. Worth looking into? I shall be at home and available tomorrow evening and the next between 6 and 8 p.m.
The almost illegible signature looked like ‘Maitland’ or ‘Mallard’ and the address scrawled below read Hill Hse, Randolph Avenue, Maida Vale.
As she read the letter, Helen Franks grew paler. ‘The night before the explosion,’ she murmured as she read, ‘near the bridge!’
‘Doesn’t mean it was her,’ said Best. ‘The links are still tenuous.’
She was not comforted and he did not blame her. Time for some decisive action. He checked the date on the letter. Yesterday. ‘What I think we need to do straight away,’ he said firmly, surprising himself with his resolution as he did sometimes, ‘is to go to see this gentleman and get some more details.’ He stood up.
‘What, now?’
‘Yes, now.’
‘Both of us?’
‘Yes, unless you have some other plans?’
‘The only plan I have, Mr Best,’ she replied, some of the crispness returning to her voice, ‘is to find my sister. Nothing else matters.’ She stood up. He was touched to see how tiny she was and yet, how resolute.
‘Good. On the way, you can tell me more about Matilda.’
The omnibus would be too slow and inappropriate, in the circumstances, thought Best as he helped Miss Franks into one of the cabs waiting on the rank conveniently situated within Great Scotland Yard. He hoped the commissioner would see it that way when it came to agreeing his expenses. The fog, which had been just a misty hint in the air was now thickening, blotting out the usual view of Horse Guards Parade seen through the Yard’s entrance. Best had quite liked London fogs, within limits. Like snow, they changed the everyday world into something new. But he had begun to feel differently when he saw what that murky air did to Emma. Now, he thought, as he turned his attention back to Helen Franks, it at least did away with the distraction of the passing scene.
‘So, when did you last hear from your sister, Miss Franks?’
‘Three weeks ago.’
‘And everything seemed in order?’
‘Perfectly. Very good, in fact. It was a light-hearted letter. She had just sold two of my paintings.’
‘How did you discover she was missing, and when?’
‘My cousin, Jane, wrote to me. Matilda had left home, on what I now know was the afternoon before the explosion. Mrs Briggs, our housekeeper, was surprised when she didn’t come back that evening but thought she must have gone to see our cousins in Pinner and had decided to stay the night – as she often did. When she didn’t return the following day, Mrs Briggs presumed that she must be staying with them for a few days. It’s not like Matilda to go off without telling anyone but, in fact, she had told Mrs Briggs that she intended to stay at Pinner for a few days the following week. Mrs Briggs thought she must have got the dates wrong. She’s getting on and is inclined to be forgetful, and knows it, poor dear.
‘After a week, and still no word, she began to get really worried and went to see the cousins. She discovered that they had not seen Matilda since well before the afternoon in question. They contacted other relatives and friends, none of whom knew of Matilda’s whereabouts. Then they telegraphed me. I came home at once. That was four days ago.’
They had reached Edgware Road, that long straight avenue which continues almost due north until it becomes Maida Vale. The high buildings, offices and shops acted like a long tunnel the walls of which echoed their slow, clip-clopping progress. In this brief respite between home-going and theatre-going there was little other traffic around for company. The fog began to lift slightly as they proceeded north and their speed increased in consequence.
‘Tell me more about your sister, her appearance and character.’
‘Well, she is very sheltered and quite shy but, as I said, showed her mettle when it mattered. She’s still very naïve, though, and needs protecting.’
‘Yet you went away.’
‘Mr Best, I had no choice!’ she rejoined angrily. ‘It was essential that I improved my technique and kept up or I would not have been able to continue to earn my living – meagre though it is – and we would both have starved.’
Or become governesses, he thought. He suddenly realized why her gaze was so disconcerting. She did not care what he thought of her, was unconcerned whether he liked her or not. She made no attempt to please. He wasn’t accustomed to that in women, other than the aristocratic types with whom he sometimes came in contact through his work, and even they, as he was not an unattractive man …
‘Did your sister have anything to do with artists?’
‘No,’ Helen Franks replied, almost too quickly. But Best did not notice. He was tired and hungry and his head was spinning. From a position of having no likely identity for his victim he now seemed to have an embarrassment of contenders for the post: boatman’s doxy, girl in blue, and now Matilda Franks.
He would like to have closed his eyes and dozed the rest of the way, but the enforced intimacy of the hansom disallowed that. Besides which, because she was so obviously resistant to his charms, he felt a sudden impulse to impress Helen Franks with his artistic knowledge. His effort, however, came out as a rather trite; ‘I do admire Rose Bonheur.’
‘Really?’ she replied coldly. ‘I think you will find you are not alone there. She is, after all, the acceptable woman artist.’
Feeling squashed, Best snapped back, ‘Well, that doesn’t mean she is not a good artist, does it?’
They glared at each other again before each turned away to look out of the windows, just as the cab slowed down and began the turn from Maida Vale towards Randolph Avenue. Who cared about the opinion of this drab and shrewish spinster, with the scorpion in her tail? Best thought sourly. Any very ordinary Italian woman would easily put her in the shade. Her missing sister might be a Nordic goddess, but she was an English mouse and did not deserve his attention.
Like its owner, Sir Giles Maitland, the drawing-room of Hill House was florid. Crimson velvet upholstery, panels of crimson-flock wallpaper and the glint of gilt trim everywhere – from the Louis-Quinze furniture to the mouldings on the stucco ceiling. The whole effect, decided Best, was pleasantly opulent.
Sir Giles Maitland’s cheeks also tended towards crimson in places. A stout, heavily moustached gentleman in his early sixties, he had welcomed them courteously, particularly Helen with whom he adopted exaggerated gallantry. Her response, Best was interested to note, was cool but polite. Despite being clearly disappointed by Best’s modest rank (when police callers were announced he had expected, at least, a Chief Inspector) Sir Giles was, nonetheless, rather tickled with his role in the mystery.
He studied the photograph carefully before admitting, ‘Honestly, m’dear, I could not say …’ Indeed, his memory of the girl in blue seemed to be restricted to the facts that she wore blue and was dashed pretty – which got them no further forward.
Helen Franks responded by simplifying the details of ladies’ attire into language which a mer
e male might understand. Maitland concentrated hard as she asked him whether the dress material had been flimsy with little spots? Had he noticed any velvet trimmings? Was some part of the ensemble, such as the wrap and the flounces at the bottom of the skirt, a deeper blue than the rest? He could remember none of these things. All he knew was that, though slight, the girl had a fine figure which could be glimpsed as her wrap flew out as she walked, and that she was as fair as an ice-maiden and had a froth of curls on her forehead.
‘Her hat? Don’t remember, sorry. Small, I think – oh, and it had something hanging forward.’ He raised his hand to describe a curve out and over his forehead. ‘Not feathers, I don’t think …’
‘Forget-me-nots,’ said Helen Franks quietly.
‘That’s it! Forget-me-nots!’ Sir Giles was delighted to get something right – until he saw the expression on Helen’s face. ‘Oh, my dear lady, I’m so sorry.’ He rushed forward to grasp her hand. ‘I did wonder,’ he burbled, ‘what such a pretty girl was doing out on her own in the park. I mean, she looked so respectable …’
‘She was. Is,’ rejoined Helen firmly.
‘Of course, m’dear. Of course.’
‘Was she carrying anything?’ broke in Best.
‘A parasol, as I said,’ he murmured, relieved to change the subject. ‘Blue, of course,’ he added shrugging apologetically.
There was a short silence, broken by an exclamation from Sir Giles. ‘I remember! I remember! She had a small bag. A carpet bag. It was out of place with such a dainty outfit. It was in dark green. That’s it! Just a minute, just a minute!’ He was trying to grasp at the elusive memory. He closed his eyes and held one hand out to stop their questions, putting the other to his forehead to aid his concentration. The stance might have looked comically dramatic in less serious circumstances. ‘Not just green, not just green, ‘he struggled. ‘Got it! Not just green,’ – his eyes flew open – ‘check, kind of checks.’
Helen began to speak, but he silenced her again as he struggled for more. The only sound came from the ticking of the magnificent ormolu and turquoise porcelain clock on the mantelpiece behind him. ‘Plaid, that’s it,’ he said finally and with some relief. ‘Green, black and blue plaid, just like–’