“Whitechapel,” he said to Becket when he came out of the prison. “All roads lead to Whitechapel. Our guard did not show up for work. His address is 5, Gerald Street.”
London had been for a long time the home of the persecuted and exiled. Whitechapel was largely the refuge of European Jews. They brought a bustling energy and life to the area, but there were still pockets where the English residents stayed in filth and dirt, ground down by lives of poverty. Gerald Street was a narrow cavern flanked on both sides by dingy tenements.
“The smell is awful,” said Harry. “Why don’t they wash?”
“In what?” asked Becket. “They haven’t any baths and the public baths cost money.”
Becket stayed to guard the car while Harry mounted the stairs of number 5. Names were scrawled in plaster at the side of the doors. Halfway up the stairs, he made out the name “Carver.”
He knocked on the door. Nearby a baby wailed, a caged linnet sang, and a man shouted something unintelligible. Harry knocked again. No reply.
He turned away. Then he turned back and tried the door handle. The door was not locked. He moved cautiously inside, calling, “Mr. Carver?”
A blanket was hanging over the window, leaving the room in darkness.
Harry edged towards the window and pulled the blanket down. He turned round and surveyed the room. It had very little furniture. There was an armchair in front of the fireplace. Harry realized with a shock that he could see the top of a man’s head.
Must have fallen asleep, he thought. He walked round the front of the armchair and stared down in horror. Carver—and surely it must be Carver—had had his throat slit. His clothes were matted with blood.
Harry went quickly to the window which overlooked the street and threw it up. He called down to Becket, “Get the police here as fast as you can.”
Harry was wearing gloves and so he decided to do a search of the room. There was little to search. He found a box of photographs—Carver with other prison guards on some sort of outing and a birth certificate.
The bed was in a recess. Harry slid his hands under the mattress and pulled out a wad of five-pound notes.
The police arrived first, followed later by Kerridge himself. “I would like to get out of here,” said Harry. “Can I make my statement at the Yard? I’ve already told the police I found a wad of fivers under the mattress.”
“Did you find a weapon? Looks like it’s been done by a razor.”
“No, but he may have thrown it away outside—down a drain in the street.”
“We’ll get to it.”
“I’ll go downstairs and wait in the motor.” Harry ran down the stairs and gulped down fresh air outside before climbing into the car beside Becket.
He told Becket what had happened. “I hope my Daisy is behaving herself,” said Becket, looking worried. “We thought it was all over and finished, but it’s beginning to look as if the murderer is still out there.”
“He may have bribed the guard. That would explain the money under the mattress.”
They waited a long time. Finally Kerridge emerged. “I think we’ll pull in this Mr. Jones for questioning. He may have nothing at all to do with us, but I’d like to see what he’s like.”
“I’ll meet you at Scotland Yard,” said Harry. “I would like to see him for myself.”
“Can’t do that,” said Kerridge. “I’ll get a rocket for letting an amateur into a police interrogation. I’ll telephone you and let you know how I get on. If you want to get away, you can call at the Yard tomorrow and we’ll take your statement there.”
Mrs. Blenkinsop, a society widow, had recently moved to a splendid house in Park Lane.
Lady Polly’s face was plastered with white make-up. The detanning cream had only removed the brown in patches. “Who would have thought a Cairo tanning would last so long?” she mourned. “That is the trouble with middle-aged skin. Now I want you to be particularly charming to young Roger. A great catch.”
Rose hoped Harry would be there. Then her heart sank as she remembered all the evenings in the past when they were officially engaged and he had failed to turn up. Her finger hurt. Her mother had ordered a jeweller to come round to the house and take the offending engagement ring off. It now resided in the depths of Rose’s jewel box.
She missed Daisy’s cheerful company. Rose was wearing a white chiffon gown with long lace sleeves and a lace panel at the front. On her head she wore a tiara of pearls. As she climbed down from the carriage, her taffeta and silk petticoats rustled. That rustle, thought Rose bitterly, was supposed to be seductive, but what was the point of appearing seductive if the very man one hoped to charm was not likely to attend?
When they were seated in the music room, Lady Pollynudged her daughter. “That’s Roger there,” she hissed, pointing with her fan.
Rose surveyed Roger. He was undoubtedly very handsome. He had thick wavy fair hair and a strong nose and firm mouth.
As if conscious of her gaze, he turned his head and gave her a half smile. Rose ducked her head and twiddled with the sticks of her ivory fan. “He smiled at you!” exclaimed Lady Polly. “You must flirt, girl.”
Fortunately for Rose, any further lecture was cut short by the start of the concert. A heavily built German gentleman sang lieder, followed by a soprano who sang “I Dreamt That I Dwelt in Marble Halls.” She received noisy and rapturous applause from an audience who did not have to dream about living in marble halls because they already did. The soprano was followed by a Pole who played Chopin with great verve and then came the interval.
Lady Polly stood up and called, “Elizabeth!” She pinched Rose’s elbow. “Roger’s mother. Be charming.”
“Polly, my dear.” Lady Cherm, who joined them, was unfashionably thin, to the point of emaciation. Her low-cut gown showed sharp bones.
“Where is your gorgeous boy?” cooed Lady Polly.
“Right there. Roger! Come and be introduced.”
Roger came to join them. His eyes were grey and fringed with fair lashes. After the introductions were effected, Roger held out his arm to Rose. “Shall we walk a little before the next half? I find rout chairs demned uncomfortable.”
Rose took his arm. “I have read a lot about you, Lady Rose,” said Roger. “You do seem to have a lot of adventures.”
“I hope they are over now,” said Rose, looking around for Harry and not finding him. “I have not seen you at the Season before.”
“I’ve been travelling. I adore seeing other countries.” He began to describe his travels and Rose found herself becoming very interested. “I’ll need to settle down one day,” said Roger, fixing her with his clear grey gaze, “but it would need to be with someone as adventurous as myself.”
Rose felt a pulse of attraction for him. Harry was such a difficult man. What would it be like to be free to travel the world with an adventurous husband?
“It’s starting again,” said Roger with a groan. “Not my thing. I say, would you like to go driving in the Park with me tomorrow?”
Rose was about to refuse, but then a spurt of rebellion prompted her to say, “I should like that very much.”
Why should she forgo the chance of a drive with a handsome man for someone like Harry who, as usual, had not even bothered to show up?
Harry had been refused an invitation. Mrs. Blenkinsop had recently tried to hire him to find her lost dog and Harry had declined. She had not forgiven him. He wondered how he was going to be able to see Rose. He also realized that he could not afford to keep turning down minor cases and so he told his secretary to advertise in the newspapers for detectives. Daisy was not in a condition to go out detecting and he needed Becket with him as an assistant as well as a driver.
He was disappointed that Rose had not called him to tell him of any social engagements where he might meet her. He wrongly assumed that she would understand that he had been unable to secure an invitation.
Then he suddenly thought that at least Daisy could call on her and tell
her all about the latest developments. Unfortunately, he forgot to tell Daisy why he had failed to appear the night before.
Rose listened in growing horror as Daisy told her of the death of the prison guard. She almost thought of cancelling her outing with Roger but then realized if she did so, her mother would be furious with her.
“I wonder how Kerridge got on with interviewing Jones,” she said. “I would have loved to be there.”
“What I was wondering,” said Daisy, “was how a haberdasher from a shop in the Mile End Road could suddenly afford a large shop in Notting Hill, not to mention a flat in Chepstow Mansions.”
“Do you mean he might have been some sort of criminal using the shop as a cover?”
“Something like that. I’m thinking of going back down the East End to make some inquiries. Can you come?”
Rose looked at the clock. Three in the afternoon. She planned long preparations to dazzle Roger. “I cannot, Daisy. I am going out driving with a gentleman and want to look my best.”
“And who is this gentleman?”
“Lord Cherm’s son, Roger. He is well travelled and is very interesting.”
“And what about the captain?”
“Daisy, he promised to be at the Mrs. Blenkinsop’s last night and he did not bother to come. Delighted as I am to see you, I feel he should have made a push to see me himself.”
“Perhaps he was unable to get an invitation.”
“Pooh, I happen to know he has done work for Mrs. Blenkinsop in the past. He does not care enough. If he had really loved me, he would not have become enamoured with Dolores.”
Rose, much as she liked to consider herself democratic, felt that there was something seriously wrong when Harry could be charmed by a vulgar creature from the East End.
“I’ll go myself,” said Daisy.
Harry went to Scotland Yard. “How did you get on with Jones?” he asked Kerridge.
“Jones got a lawyer here very quickly. He acted the outraged shopkeeper. As we had nothing so far to connect him with either Carver or Biles, we had to let him go.”
“What did you make of him?”
“I’m puzzled. He does seem a respectable man, rather weak and fussy. It would take a great stretch of my imagination.”
“If he is innocent, why did he refuse to see me?”
“Perhaps he has something murky to hide other than murder.”
“I wonder. He does seem to live in style and have a large shop.
Quite a social jump-up from the East End. I think I’ll go down there with Becket and ask around where the shop used to be.”
Daisy had had the same idea. The shop was now an ironmonger’s. She pushed open the door and went in.
A huge man in a brown overall stood behind the counter. Without Rose’s purse to back her up, Daisy did not want to spend the small amount of money she had with her by buying items of ironmongery. She decided to be direct.
“I am working for the Cathcart Detective Agency,” she said. “Did you know the previous owner, Mr. Jones?”
“I bought the shop from him, that’s all,” he said.
“The thing that puzzles me,” said Daisy, “is how he got enough money out of the sale to buy that big shop up west?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“I tried. Anyway, the police are questioning him today.”
“I don’t like nosy parkers.” He came round the counter and loomed over her. “Do you know what happens to nosy parkers round here?”
Daisy turned to go.
“They end up in the river,” he shouted.
Daisy reached for the door handle but a vicious blow struck her on the back of the head.
“I’ll deal with you later,” growled the shopkeeper.
He decided to close up. When Becket and Harry arrived, he was putting up the shutters.
Harry approached him. “I would like a word with you.”
“Haven’t got the time,” he said. “Closing up.”
“Bit early for that, isn’t it?” asked Harry.
Becket got down from the car and stood beside Harry. Then Becket heard a faint cry from the shop. “Help me!”
The shopkeeper snarled, “Go away,” and tried to get into the shop. Harry struck him a savage blow behind his legs with his stick and the man fell to the ground.
“See who’s there, Becket,” said Harry.
Becket ran into the shop. Then Harry, standing over the fallen shopkeeper, heard Becket howl, “It’s Daisy. She’s hurt bad.”
The shopkeeper tried to struggle to his feet. Harry struck him over the head and he fell down again.
He went in to the shop. “I’ll tie that villain up. Help me with a shutter. We’ll lift Daisy out and put her in the car and then get her to hospital. Take her to Saint Bartholomew’s.”
Harry found some rope behind the counter. He went out and tied the man up and dragged him by his heels into the shop. Then he brought a shutter and they gently lifted Daisy onto it. Daisy was moaning faintly, and as they lifted her, Harry saw with horror that the back of her gown was stained with blood.
Once Daisy had been lifted into the car and driven off, Harry returned to the shop. He saw there was a telephone on the wall. Odd that a poor neighbourhood shop should boast a telephone, he thought, but he dialled Scotland Yard and told Kerridge about the events.
Then he phoned the earl’s secretary and left a message for Rose that Daisy had been attacked and was now in hospital.
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne and yet must bear,
Till death like sleep might steal on me.
—PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
Rose was not at home for Harry’s telephone call. She was out being driven in the Park by the handsome Roger. She found him more and more intriguing and felt she could listen to his stories for hours. His tales took her imagination flying to coral islands, to the minarets of Istanbul and the bustling excitement of New York.
He made her feel feminine, light and free. There was none of that aching, dark, brooding, frightening passion she often felt for Harry.
The earl had demanded to know who had rung and Matthew had told him about Daisy’s predicament. The earl told his wife.
“Where is she?” demanded Lady Polly.
“Bart’s.”
“Then we must go immediately.”
“I’ll order the carriage,” said the earl.
Daisy had been employed by them and the earl and countess were diligent at looking after their staff. That Daisy was no longer in their employ did not matter. It was still their responsibility to take care of her.
They were escorted by a matron to outside a ward where Becket was sitting with his head in his hands.
“How is she?” demanded Lady Polly.
“I’m waiting to find out, my lady,” said Becket, getting to his feet.
“We will have her removed to a private room as soon as possible,” said the earl.
They waited in silence. Becket was too upset, too shy of them at the same time, to make any attempt at conversation.
At last a doctor approached them. “Mr. Becket,” he said, “your wife is going to be all right, but I’m afraid Mrs. Becket has lost her baby.”
“We are the Earl and Countess of Hadshire,” said Lady Polly grandly. “We feel Mrs. Becket should be moved to a private room.”
“We will do that as soon as she comes out of the operating theatre.”
“May I see her?” pleaded Becket.
“It won’t be long now. My lord, my lady, we have a more comfortable room for you to wait in. Follow me.”
They had been waiting for half an hour when Rose arrived. “What on earth has happened to Daisy?” she asked.
Becket told her about the visit to the shop and then said in a stifled voice, “Daisy has lost the baby.”
“How dreadful. How is she?”
“I don’t know. They say they will
let me see her soon.”
“Where is Captain Cathcart?”
“He was guarding the villain when I left. When I get my Daisy out of here, I never want her to do any detecting again.”
“And that goes for you, too, Rose,” said Lady Polly angrily.
A doctor came in, a different one, and said, “Mr. Becket, you can have a few words with your wife now. She has had a bad concussion and lost a lot of blood.”
They all got to their feet. “I think perhaps Mr. Becket should see her alone,” he said.
Becket went off. Then Matthew Jarvis arrived. “I came, my lord, to see if I could be of any help.”
“Good man. Go and see whoever you have to and get the billing for a private room for Mrs. Becket. She has lost her baby. Find out the best consultants in Harley Street for her and tell them to examine her as soon as possible. Make arrangements for proper food and strengthening wine to be delivered to her room.”
“Very good, my lord.”
The doctor came back. “I think you can spend a few minutes with Mrs. Becket. Follow me.”
Daisy looked a small forlorn figure lying in the hospital bed. Her head was bandaged. Tears ran down Rose’s face. She sat down by the bedside and took Daisy’s hand.
Becket was on the other side of the bed, his face white with misery. “Do you know what they are saying, Rose?” whispered Daisy. “They say I may have lost the baby anyway. It was not a strong pregnancy.”
“Shhh, dear. You must get strong and well again.”
“Country air is what you need once you are out of here,” said Lady Polly bracingly. “We will make arrangements to have you removed to Stacey Court, you and your husband, that is.”
“You are very kind, my lady.”
The doctor and a nurse reappeared. “I think Mrs. Becket should be left to rest,” said the doctor.
“Find a room here for her husband,” ordered the earl. “My secretary is around somewhere. Make the arrangements with him.”
Back home, Rose thanked her parents for their care of Daisy. “I thought I never liked the gel,” said Lady Polly with a sigh. “Then I remembered how she had saved your life and how brave she had been. It was the least we could do.” And before Rose could thank them again, Lady Polly said briskly, “Now, to more important matters. How did you get on with Roger?”
Our Lady of Pain Page 15