“She left me, Peg. She left me. How could she do that?”
It was a question that Peg had asked herself. Veronica might not have cared much for Peg and Sheila – although Cassie’s revelation about the letters suggested otherwise – but she adored Mary. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I really don’t know.”
“Peg?”
“What darling?”
“You’re good at finding out things, aren’t you?”
“I suppose so.”
“Then please find out who killed mummy, because I really don’t think she would have left me.” Sobs racked Mary’s body. Peg lifted her up to her, cradling her in her arms. “Please, Peg.”
“Alright, I will try to find out. But you might have to accept the truth, baby, no matter how painful. And that is that mummy took an overdose of laudanum, because she was desperately worried.” Peg knew that Sheila would have been angry if she heard Peg say it so bluntly to Mary, but Peg did not believe in candy-coating bad news. Besides, Mary would know the truth soon enough, and it was better that she heard it from the people who loved and cared about her than a cruel and unthinking villager.
“I will. I promise. I do love you, Peg even though you can be grumpy sometimes.”
“I love you, my sweet girl. And whatever happens, I promise I will never leave you.”
***
Cassie’s dream of Helen was always the same, but details had become stronger since she came to England, as if memories were being awoken. They were in the garden and the two little girls were holding hands, and looking for somewhere to hide.
“Quickly, before she finds us,” Helen cried, her little face a mask of pain and fear. “If she finds us…”
Helen did not have to tell Cassie about the consequences. They found an old outhouse on the edge of the garden, leading into the woods. Any other time they might have been afraid to go in there, but her mother’s wrath was even more terrifying. There was an old sofa in the outhouse, so they hid behind that, clinging together.
The door to the outhouse opened, and a woman entered. “Cassie,” a gentle voice said. Receiving no answer, the woman went out again.
“She’s only pretending to be nice,” Helen whispered. “That’s what they do. They act nice and then they hurt you.”
Cassie gulped, then looked down to see that she had wet herself. Her humiliation was complete.
She awoke, a grown woman, with tears streaming down her face. She wished she had never come back to Midchester. It held too many painful memories, some of which she could not trust.
***
A day or two later, Peg called up at Bedlington Hall to see Gerry Sanderson. “How do you fancy a trip out?” she asked. “I’ve borrowed a car from the garage here, and as everything belongs to you now, no one can say I’ve stolen it. Unless you’re going to drop me in it.”
“Where are we going with my car?” asked Gerry, with a grin.
“According to everyone else, I’m just helping to you to get out and about as part of your recuperation. In reality, we’re off to Shrewsbury, to the hotel where Veronica was found. I have a commission to solve a crime.”
“Really? Who from? The beautiful Miss Harrington?”
“No, it’s from the even more beautiful Miss Bradbourne.” She was not too happy with Gerry’s puzzled frown. He could have pretended it was her. “I mean Mary, you fool,” she said.
“Are you sure that’s wise, Peg? The poor kid’s been through enough.”
“She asked me to find out the truth, so that’s what I’m going to do. I don’t do much for other people, but for Mary I’d walk over hot coals.”
He nodded, with understanding in his eyes. “I know you would, old girl. Come on then, let’s go and solve a mystery together!”
Despite being stung by the ‘old girl’ comment, Peg thought that driving through the countryside with Gerry was more fun than it should have been under the circumstances. With the top down and the sun shining above them, it was hard to believe that there had been so much tragedy in the preceding weeks. It was also hard to believe that hundreds of miles away, young men were fighting for their lives in dirty, rat infested trenches. Even with Bedlington Hall being given over to the military and the new aerodrome just outside Midchester, the war seemed a long way away.
“Wait till I tell Freddie about this,” she said with a smile as they neared their destination. “He loves a mystery.”
“Must you?” Gerry said, becoming serious.
“Why ever not?”
“Oh, I just wonder if he’ll be very happy about me running around with his sister. Some fellows can get funny about it, you know.”
“You’re not one of Freddie’s special friends, are you?” Peg asked, then immediately wished she had not.
“Special friends?”
“Oh you know, fire forged friends and all that,” she said, to cover up her gaffe.
“We have seen a lot of action together, of course, but no, that’s not it. I’d just rather if you didn’t mention me. It can be hard for the fellows out there to hear about those of us who made it home, that’s all. I don’t want to make him too wistful.”
Peg did not understand that at all. From her own experience of writing to her brother, he liked to hear of even the most trivial events at home. “Oh well, if you’d rather I didn’t, then I won’t. Besides, I’ll have enough bad news to tell him.”
They were quiet for the rest of the trip, but Peg told herself it was a comfortable silence, even though she sensed that Gerry’s thoughts were not exactly with her. Still, he was there, and he seemed to enjoy her company.
The hotel was in a tiny back alley in the centre of Shrewsbury. The lace curtains on the window might have been white once, but they had become yellow with age. When Peg and Gerry walked in through the door, the man on the desk smirked and said,
“Mr and Mrs Smith, I presume.” He was a sweaty looking man, wearing a shirt which had a dirty collar.
“Actually it’s Miss Bradbourne and Mr Sanderson.”
“Now, Miss,” the man said with a note of caution. “Let’s be discreet, shall we? I don’t want the authorities to close me down.”
“Does my name mean nothing to you?” Peg asked.
“Should it?”
“My step-mother, Veronica Bradbourne was found dead in one of your rooms last week. She committed suicide. It’s hardly something you’d forget.”
“Shh…” The man came from behind the desk and shut the door leading into the lounge. “I’ve got a business to run and there’s some people as wouldn’t like to hear that.”
“I’d like to ask you some questions,” said Peg.
“I already told the police all I know.”
“There’s money in it for you,” said Gerry, reaching into his pocket. He turned to Peg. “Except I forgot my wallet.”
“Luckily I was paid this morning,” she sighed. “As Mr Sanderson said, there’s money in it for you. I’d also like to see the room, if that’s possible.”
“It’s erm … taken at the moment.”
“I’m sure it will be free within the hour,” Gerry said, wryly.
“What do you mean?” asked Peg.
“Well erm… Never mind. We’ll wait, Mr?”
“Jones.”
Peg doubted Jones was anymore the man’s name than Smith was hers and Gerry’s but she let it go. “Okay, I’ll just ask questions. Do you remember my stepmother coming in?” she asked.
“Yes, I do, Miss,” Jones said. His voice was more respectfully, seemingly having realised he was talking to a lady, rather than an easy girl needing a sleazy room for herself and her lover. “She was a bit too rich for this place, to be honest, but she seemed very happy and excited to be here.”
“So she did not seem downhearted?” asked Peg.
“Not that I could see. I told the police that. Whether it was an act, I don’t know, Miss. But she seemed happy enough to me.”
“Did you see the man she was supposed to meet?
”
“I can’t say I did, Miss. At least no one came in and asked for her. I went off duty at around six.”
“It was days before she was found, wasn’t it?”
“Well, yes, Miss, because she booked the room for several days. When the maid tried to go in, the door was locked and there was a ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door, so well… we assumed she wanted some privacy. Same as most of our clientele. It was only when…” He paused. “Well, we realised something was wrong.”
“The smell,” said Peg.
“Yes, Miss, the smell.”
“Who else stayed whilst she was here?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that, Miss.”
“I realise you have to be discreet.”
“No, Miss, I mean, I can’t answer. As you’ve probably realised, no one gives their real names here, so I honestly couldn’t tell you. Well, except Mrs Bradbourne, and until they found her, I assumed that was a false name. You could have knocked me down with a feather when it turned out be her real name.”
“If she wasn’t meeting a man, why would she come here, Gerry?” She turned to her friend.
“It doesn’t make sense, does it? Not a nice lady like that, in a place like this. Sorry,” Gerry said to Jones. “No offence meant.”
“None taken, Sir. I know what type of place I run, but it makes money you see, especially during a war. Besides, why shouldn’t people have a bit of happiness when so many young men are dying out there?”
His argument was irrefutable as far as Peg could see. “Could you describe any of the other people who were here?” she asked. “We’re looking for a man about six feet tall, with dark hair.”
“That describes lots of men, Miss.”
“He drives a bullnose Morris Crowley.”
“Now wait, that does sound familiar. There’s not many of them around here.”
“No, there aren’t.”
“I’m not saying he comes here, mind you. He’d not thank me for saying that. But his name is Alexander Marshall. He’s a marquis or an earl or something, but he’s one of those socialists, so he’s dropped his title. He lives somewhere out towards Midchester. In one of those little Hamlets. Just fancies himself as an artist, I think, so he’s got a studio.”
“Thank you!” said Peg. “Now, may we see the room?”
It was another half an hour before they could see the room. The bed had not even been made. Peg blushed to think of what had happened there. She also wondered at people who could find any kind of romance, even the sleazy kind, in a bedroom where someone had died.
It was a miserable little room, with dark stained wallpaper and a lumpy looking bed with sheets that looked as if they needed a good boil. Or perhaps to be burned to cinders, Peg thought.
“What do you hope to find, Peg?” asked Gerry.
“I have absolutely no idea, to be honest,” she said. “I suppose the police have found everything they need to find. I just wondered if Veronica had left anything here. Something that might give a clue as to her state of mind or who she met.”
“Actually,” said Jones, “there was something the maid found afterwards. I meant to tell the police, but I’ve been a bit busy.” He looked sheepish.
“You mean she took it,” said Peg.
“She’s an honest girl is Myrtle. But sometimes things drop into the mop bucket.”
Peg imagined they did, and wondered why Jones was admitting it now. “What is it?”
Jones went away and came back a few minutes later. “It’s this brooch.” He handed it to Peg. It was the blue lapis lazuli brooch that Veronica had been wearing when she went out with the man in the car. “Myrtle said she was wearing it when she arrived,” Jones explained, “and that she found it on the floor, just outside the bedroom door. She meant to give it to me, she says, but we were busy what with the police running around. Anyway, you’ve got it now.”
“He probably thought we knew about it,” said Peg, as she and Gerry drove back to Midchester. “And that we’d missed it in amongst her personal effects.”
“Yes, that’s what I think. His giving it back to you was damage limitation to stop you sending the police around. I think Mr Jones is probably into a lot of things he wouldn’t thank the police for knowing.”
“What makes you say that?”
“That hotel must be running at a loss, because no decent person would go there, yet he keeps it open. It’ll be a front for something. The black market maybe. Young Myrtle probably found the brooch, and handed it in as the dutiful young maid she is, but he realised he couldn’t shift it. Not with the way Veronica died in his place.”
“Goodness, dear cousin. You do know a lot about crime.”
“There was a man in our unit. Name of Harry Carter. What he didn’t know about crime wasn’t worth knowing. He was a handy man to have around when we run short of food and drink, but not the sort of man that you’d want to take home to mother.” Gerry’s voice was grim.
“It sounds as if you didn’t much like him.”
“War makes for strange bedfellows.”
“Now we need to find out where this earl-turned-socialist artist Alexander Marshall lives and go and question him.”
“Peg, dear girl. Don’t you think you should leave this to the police now?”
“No, I told Mary I’d do it. Archer is a good man, and good at his job. But I think we – I – could probably get people to open up a bit more. To all intents and purposes, Veronica committed suicide and as far as anyone knows, I’m just trying to find out why. If Archer gets involved, world will get around that it’s a murder investigation and they’ll clam up.”
Peg stopped at the local police station on her way home. The place was a hive of activity.
“Constable Archer,” she said, when he came from the back room where the cells were situated. “I have some information for you. The man my stepmother was seeing might have been a man called Alexander Marshall. Do you know him?”
“I know of him, Miss, but we’ve got other problems at the moment.” He turned to the young policeman who was sitting behind the counter. “Come with me, Simpson.”
“You need to go and speak to Marshall,” Peg insisted. “Please, Constable Archer.”
“Miss Bradbourne, I know you’re distressed about your stepmother, but we’ve got a lead in the Arthur Harrington case. If we don’t hurry, that lead may get on a train to London and we may never find him again.”
“Who? Harrington committed suicide, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but he also lost his boots. And guess who has just taken delivery of a new pair of boots.”
“Colonel Trent. I saw him in them the other day.”
Archer’s lips twisted into a grin. “You spinster sleuths and the way you insist on keeping things to yourselves. Yes, it’s Colonel Trent and I’m going to find out exactly how he came by his new boots.”
“May I accompany you?”
“You most certainly may not. We don’t work that way, Miss Bradbourne, no matter how they do it in books.”
Peg could only watch in frustration as Archer and his men left the police station.
Chapter Eight
“If you could just tell us where you got the boots, Colonel, we can clear all this up,” Archer said. They spoke to Colonel Trent in his own sitting room, rather than embarrassing him by taking him to the police station.
That did not stop the women on Spinsters Row from standing at their gates, gossiping about the police visit.
“Good people should not have to deal with the police,” said Miss Cartwright. “And I am sure the Colonel is a good man. Not that he isn’t a bit sharp from time to time. Why only the other day…”
As she regaled her listeners with a story of the colonel’s grumpiness when she asked for advice on her roses, Archer took a more discreet approach. “It wouldn’t be the first time a man bought something from someone at the pub,” he suggested.
“I do not frequent that establishment,” said the Colone
l. “And nor would I.”
“There’s nothing wrong with The Quiet Woman,” said Archer. “It’s a very respectable establishment, run by my brother-in-law.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew…” The Colonel clamped his lips shut. With his spine rigid in a high back leather seat that had seen better days, it looked as if he were the one sitting in judgement. “A man should be able to buy a new pair of boots without being accused of murder.”
The Doctor's Daughter (The Peg Bradbourne Mysteries Book One) Page 6