Bright Young Dead

by Jessica Fellowes

  On the wet ground at the base of the church tower, an arm across his neck and his legs twisted beneath him, mouth open and eyes staring without sight, was the broken, dead body of Adrian Curtis. Standing beside him, with a purpling black eye and hands over her silenced mouth, stood the stricken figure of Dulcie Long.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Guy and Mary met outside Oxford Circus Tube, as had become their habit in the last few weeks. The first time they almost hadn’t recognised each other out of their uniforms and buttoned up in long, heavy coats, partly to keep out the cold and partly to look as incognito as possible. The wretched boredom and frustration of no success had been trying on their tempers but on this morning Guy was hopping on his feet like a six-year-old boy on his birthday, feeling the promise of catching a thief as certain as that of a surprise wrapped up in paper and a ribbon. They’d been instructed to stick to the smaller shops of Great Marlborough Street, which ran parallel to Oxford Street, one or two side streets away – alleys that provided nifty escapes for the shoplifters if they weren’t operating with a getaway car.

  ‘Cars?’ said Mary. ‘Do girl thieves have cars?’

  Guy nodded. The night before he had picked up some extra information from one of the other sergeants before he left the station and thought it could change their luck. ‘Nice cars, too,’ he said. ‘Alice Diamond, the ringleader, drives a black Chrysler.’

  Mary gave an impressive low whistle. ‘And they say crime doesn’t pay…’

  ‘Oi,’ said Guy, laughing. ‘We’d better hop to it.’

  ‘To do what exactly?’ The two of them had slipped through to Little Argyll Street and were walking slowly, eyes squinting against the sun.

  ‘I’ve had a think,’ said Guy. ‘What Sergeant Bingham said to me was that although the Forty Thieves have got a reputation for being tall and well dressed they never wear the things they steal. Too risky or too obvious, I suppose. So what they do is pass the goods on to a fence. He sells it all on for them.’

  ‘A fence?’ asked Mary.

  ‘That’s the name for someone who sells on stolen goods.’

  ‘Who does he sell them to?’

  Guy shrugged. ‘Black market, I suppose. Some individuals. There’s always someone willing to pay cheap for something worth more. But here’s my idea.’ He paused while they dodged around an old man who was walking slowly in front of them on the pavement. ‘Seeing as Soho and these little shops are so close to Oxford Street, it makes sense to me that they’d get rid of the dresses or fur coats they’d stolen as quickly as possible. I think we should look out for things being sold to the shops, rather than being sold out of them.’

  Mary looked at him and – yes, he was sure – it was with admiration. Well, why not? Guy felt as if all things were possible today.

  But Mary said: ‘I’m not too sure about that. They’re not exactly going to waltz straight from Debenham and Freebody and just sell it over another counter round the corner, are they? It’ll be done somewhere out of sight.’

  The balloon had been deftly pricked by a sharp pin. ‘They might,’ Guy blustered.

  ‘They might,’ said Mary diplomatically. ‘Still, there’s no reason we shouldn’t look out for the fences. They’re men, I suppose?’

  Eager to cover up his ignorance, for Sergeant Bingham had only told him the little he knew, Guy nodded sagely. ‘Not good men, either. Alice Diamond’s band, the Forty Thieves, is closely associated with the Elephant and Castle gang. They all come from the same corner of London.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve heard of them. Guns and fast cars. There was that chase last year, from Piccadilly and all around London,’ said Mary. ‘The cars were supposed to be going at fifty miles per hour. I hardly knew you could go that fast.’

  Guy looked into the distance as if recalling the very moment the chase had begun. ‘Yep, they can. Come on, let’s try these shops first.’ Guy turned to her with a smile. ‘Good luck,’ he whispered and took Mary’s arm.

  * * *

  Four hours and several shops later, they were feeling tired and disillusioned. It was clear that there were going to be no quick results on this with this new tactic. Avoiding other plain-clothes policemen seemed to be harder than finding one of the Forty or their fences.

  ‘We’re not being clever enough,’ sighed Guy as they tramped along the street, avoiding the eyes of another pair of station colleagues walking in the opposite direction.

  ‘Is there someone we could talk to, to find out more?’ said Mary.

  ‘More about what?’

  ‘I don’t know, about the Forty, about the men that sell their stolen goods … Something that could give us a lead. At the moment we have absolutely nothing.’

  Guy was gratified to hear this ambition from Mary. He knew that quite a few of the constables saw this operation as an excuse to do less work, wandering about the streets and stopping off in cafés for tea. But she knew there was a chance here for them to show what they were really made of.

  ‘There is one place we could try,’ he said hesitantly. ‘It’s a risk, I’m not sure anyone there will talk to us. But I’ve got a secret weapon…’

  * * *

  ‘Socks?’ said Mary. She was crouched down with a black and white dog nuzzling her hands.

  ‘I inherited the name,’ said Guy. ‘It’s a long story but he was given to me by…’ He wasn’t sure how much to go into his acquisition of the dog, a scruffy but cheerful mutt that had belonged to Louisa’s uncle, who did not share the pet’s character. ‘Let’s just say the two of us took to each other.’

  ‘I can see that,’ laughed Mary. Socks was jumping up at Guy now, keen to earn his favourite rub behind the ears.

  ‘He used to belong to a nasty sort and I have a feeling that some of his old cohorts might talk to us if they see Socks. It’s likely they’ll know about fences and how to track them down.’

  ‘It’s worth a try.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to? It’s after six o’clock now, you could just go home.’

  ‘And stare at the walls while I eat my soup? No thanks. I’d much rather do whatever it is we’re about to do,’ said Mary.

  They had gone to collect Socks from Guy’s house in Hammersmith, where he still lived with his mum and dad. From there, it was only two short bus rides to Chelsea and the pub that stood at the edge of the Peabody Estate where Louisa Cannon had grown up.

  ‘We’re just two people stopping for a drink on the way home, remember?’ said Guy to Mary as they approached the Cross Keys.

  ‘Yes, don’t worry. Even I have been to a pub before.’

  Guy pushed the door open and Socks ran in ahead of them, his nose twitching at the rich smells that lay within. Thankfully, it was a Friday night and the pub was already packed with men primed to spend the contents of the brown envelopes they’d earned that week. Or money they’d pilfered, Guy thought, but he kept it to himself. The air was thick with smoke, covering the pungent sweat of the hardworking and unwashed. Full pints and half-empty glasses lined the bar where the men leaned over, squeezed together like toes in a tight boot. There were a few booths, too, and side tables, with almost every stool taken, but Guy spotted a table vacant in the corner and nodded to Mary to sit there. There were no other women except for the barmaids but Guy could see she was determined not to be intimidated.

  ‘Ginger beer?’ he mouthed at her and she nodded.

  Guy pushed his way in politely at the bar, the men either side grunting mildly but not stopping him either. He saw a few glances in his direction and knew he looked out of place. Not only was he a stranger, his glasses and squeaky-clean short hair marked him out as a white-collar man. Bravely, he returned one or two of the looks and ordered his drinks. Socks was nowhere to be seen.

  Back at the table, Guy sat down and handed Mary her glass. ‘What’s Socks up to?’ he asked.

  ‘Over there,’ she said. ‘He’s found a friend, I’d say.’

  Guy looked over and saw an old man patting Socks, who was sitti
ng up, his eyes fixed on the man’s pockets. Before too long, the man had reached in and given the dog a titbit of something, with a laugh. The man saw Guy watching and pointed at Socks.

  ‘He yours?’ he asked.

  Guy nodded and, to his surprise, the old man came over to them, Socks trotting behind. He looked to be about eighty years old with a generous sweep of snow-white hair brushed off his forehead, and though his trousers and jacket were frayed, they looked clean. His eyes reminded Guy of a monkey’s, deep set and shining. He found a stool from nearby and put it down by their table, raising his glass to them both as he sat down.

  ‘I take it you’re a friend of Stephen’s,’ he said.

  Mary covered up her surprise fast when Guy said, ‘From a while back.’

  ‘I always loved his old dog. I’m Jim, by the way.’

  ‘Bertie,’ said Guy quickly, ‘and this is Mae.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Mae,’ Jim doffed an imaginary cap. ‘What happened to Stephen then? He disappeared from here all of a sudden and we none of us heard from him again.’

  ‘Joined the army,’ said Guy, taking a long draught to cover up his nerves. ‘Probably posted abroad.’

  ‘Probably dodging someone he owes money to,’ chuckled Jim.

  Guy took a breath and looked around, as if making sure no one could hear them. Jim leaned in.

  ‘That’s the official story anyway.’

  ‘What’s the unofficial one?’

  ‘Went South. Joined the Elephants.’

  Jim sucked his teeth. ‘Nasty lot. He’d have a job if he got mixed up with them.’

  Guy motioned towards Mary. ‘Mae here, she’s thinking of joining the Forty Thieves.’

  ‘The girls? Clever lot they are. Not sure you can just sign up though. Think you have to be born into it, like.’

  ‘I was,’ said Mary, surprising Guy with a bang-on south London accent.

  ‘Oh, going back to your roots are you?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Mary answered, still pitch-perfect.

  ‘I thought they didn’t work in London no more,’ said Jim. ‘Got too hot, what with all the police all over their case.’

  ‘Where else could they work?’ Guy asked, too quickly. Jim gave him a sharp look.

  ‘Anywhere there’s big shops. Manchester, Birmingham. Tell you what.’ Jim turned behind him and motioned for another old man to come and join them. He hobbled over slowly, his beer sloshing against the edge of his glass with each heavy step.

  ‘What?’ he said when he arrived, though his tone wasn’t unfriendly.

  ‘Would you like my stool?’ said Guy, getting up.

  ‘Ahh, no,’ chuckled the old man. ‘Do me good to stand, been sittin’ all day. What can I do you for, then?’

  ‘What do you know about the Forty Thieves?’ said Jim before turning back to Guy and Mary. ‘Pete here – isn’t nothing he doesn’t know about what goes on in this city.’

  Pete gave a low laugh again. ‘I don’t know about that but the Forty, that’s the women. Said to have been around for a couple of hundred years in one form or another. I don’t know who the leader is now. We used to have a cousin who got mixed up in it before the war.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You asking?’

  Mary pushed her chin out, as if defiant. ‘Might be,’ she said.

  Pete took a drink. ‘Well, I don’t know how they’re going on now. I heard they was moving out of London.’

  ‘That’s what I told them,’ said Jim.

  ‘The latest wheeze is getting themselves work as maids in big country houses,’ continued Pete. ‘Easy way to nab stuff.’

  ‘How do they get rid of it?’ said Guy.

  ‘Tell you what, my glass is looking a bit empty,’ said Jim, waggling it. There was a good third left.

  Guy turned to Mary. ‘Do us a favour?’ he said, and handed her some coins. He felt guilty, knowing she’d have to deal with an unwelcome comment or two from the other drinkers but he didn’t want to risk missing anything. She grimaced slightly but got up and went to the bar. Harry leaned over with a leer.

  ‘She your girl?’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Guy.

  ‘You want to watch out, if she goes in with the Forty. They don’t like their girls to look outside, if you catch my meaning.’

  Guy felt his throat constrict, making it hard to swallow. ‘What happens?’

  ‘They call in favours from the Elephant lot,’ interjected Pete. ‘They arrange things. Selling on what they’ve nicked and, when necessary…’ He drew a finger across this throat.

  Guy was grateful that Mary put two full glasses down on the table before them at that moment. ‘Where do they sell it on?’

  But he’d pushed his luck. ‘You’re asking a lot of questions,’ said Jim and his voice had turned like cream left out in the sun. ‘What’s it all for?’

  Guy wasn’t sure but it seemed as if either Pete or Jim had made some sort of signal without his realising. Three or four men at the bar had turned around and were staring at them. He stood up quickly, Socks scrabbling out from under the table where he’d been dozing at his feet. ‘We’re grateful to you but we’d best be on our way home now. Come on, Mary.’

  ‘I thought you said her name was Mae,’ said Jim, putting his drink down.

  ‘Slip of the tongue,’ said Guy and started to push past Jim, with Mary close behind. Several of the men had turned their backs to the bar, watching the scene. Guy had just reached the front door of the pub and closed his grip around the handle when he felt Mary jerk herself back around. The men had advanced towards her but Mary stood her ground, Socks at her side.

  ‘I wouldn’t if I was you,’ she said in a threatening voice. ‘Remember what I told you about what I was born into.’

  The men held back, puzzled, and Jim put an arm out to stop them. He looked at Mary and grinned.

  ‘Stand back, lads,’ he said. ‘No need to fight tonight.’

  With relief, Guy opened the door and he, Mary and Socks stepped outside into the black night. They had got what they wanted, after all, and they knew where they needed to go to next.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sebastian broke the silence, stepping forward and gently taking Dulcie by the shoulders. ‘You’d better come inside,’ he said, his voice thick with whisky and shock.

  Louisa tried to catch her eye but Dulcie stared at the ground, her hands still over her mouth, her feet stumbling as Sebastian guided her along. What had happened? A second fight between Dulcie and Adrian? She’d not seen Dulcie since she’d run down the stairs and out of the back door. Anything might have happened. It had.

  And Pamela, oh God. What would Pamela say about what she had heard earlier in her aunt’s room? Would she tell the police that Louisa had sent her upstairs and that there had been no message? Would she be a suspect? Maybe she should feel guilty. She’d let Dulcie into the house and shown her to an empty bedroom in which to have a meeting with a man who, an hour later, was dead. Louisa’s throat started to close and she wished everyone would go, quickly, before she started screaming in fear and confusion herself. She had a sudden and complete longing for Guy to be at her side, calm and steady, with his arms around her giving her comfort. She had never felt so alone.

  The others were reacting to the terrible sight before them, too. Charlotte had nearly dropped to the ground herself but Ted caught her and walked her back to the house, Nancy on the other side, shielding her and preventing her from looking over her shoulder. Louisa asked Clara to take Miss Pamela, who was not crying but gulped huge hiccups. When the rest of them had walked back out through the archway, Louisa stepped nearer to the body. That he was dead there was no doubt. Already there was a white sheen over his face, the death mask. Rigor mortis had not yet set in and she wondered if she should straighten him out so that there weren’t difficulties later, then decided that might be classed as interfering with the scene of the crime. If it was a crime. Perhaps he fell. Might he not have jumped? A sick joke on the treasur
e hunt. Anger rose fast for a selfish suicide from a nasty man who must have thought life not only short but brutish, too. Then she calmed herself; she must wait for the inevitable arrival of the police. Nothing lay on the ground beside his lifeless body but the black straw hat he had been wearing as his vicar’s costume, which had landed some way away. She left that, too, and made her way back to the house.

  Lady Redesdale and her sister-in-law were down in the hall in their dressing gowns by the time Louisa came in, as well as a few of the other guests, friends of Lord and Lady Redesdale who had gone to bed early too. Three or four were not there, presumably having managed to sleep through the commotion. Louisa had not followed the others through the front door – whether through habit or a desire not to upset the protocol when everything else was upside down she wasn’t sure – but had gone around the back in her usual way and entered into the hall through the green baize door that separated the family’s quarters from the servants. Everybody seemed to be standing about as if in a queue at the post office, shuffling their feet quietly and not speaking to each other. The only sound was of Charlotte’s crying, an arrhythmic series of sobs and hiccups. The candles had gone out but lights had been switched on, which made everything unnaturally bright, as if it was suddenly morning. Lord Redesdale came out of the telephone cupboard off the hall, also in his dressing gown, tightly belted.

  ‘Right. I’ve called the police and they’re on their way. There’s no use in us standing about here in the cold, let’s go into the drawing room.’

  Sebastian, still holding Dulcie, who was moving slowly and with tiny, unsure movements, like a terrified child, led the way from the hall. Phoebe had come out to see what had gone on but soon returned to her position on the yellow sofa, limping. Pamela was being comforted by her mother, who had upon her face an accustomed look, set not to reveal anything of what she was really thinking. In the drawing room, Louisa poked the fire and added a couple of logs, then fetched blankets from a window seat and gave them to the women. Her movements were professional and mechanical. Nancy had removed her mantilla and Pamela her wig, leaving their heads bare and flattened, their faces sickly white.