by Michelle Cox
“Didn’t he say anything else?” Henrietta asked, wiping her mouth carefully. It would never do to appear back at Castle Linley with gravy on her lips.
“Not really. He clammed up. When I tried to explain that I’m a guest of Lord Linley and that I’m trying to help the police in a roundabout sort of way, he suggested I “find yerself a badge, then,” Clive repeated irritably.
Henrietta could not help but let out a little laugh. “Serves you right, I suppose,” she added, draining her beer. “Did you ever think that it could be a woman?” Henrietta asked, leaning back now. “Maybe that’s what this is really all about.”
Clive looked at her appreciatively. “It did cross my mind at one point, but it doesn’t seem to fit. Why the secrecy and the elaborate ruse?”
“Perhaps she’s unsuitable. Not worthy of being Lady Linley and all that. Stranger things have been known to happen,” she said mischievously.
“According to Compton, though, this has been going on for a couple of years already. I would have thought he would have grown tired of such an amusement by now.”
“Perhaps she’s more than an amusement.”
“If so, then why wouldn’t he force the issue with Lord and Lady Linley? He seems willing to force any other issue.”
“True,” she admitted.
Clive stood up then and held his hand out to her. “Come, my dear, our carriage awaits,” he said, inclining his head toward the window.
Henrietta took up her soaked coat, which had not had nearly enough time to dry out yet, and bent to look out the nearest window. She could see that Bradwell had pulled up with the Rolls. She looked at Clive questioningly.
“I took the liberty of calling the house from the bar when we first came in. Told Bradwell to give us an hour.”
“How clever, darling,” she said, slipping her arm through his and kissing the stubble on his cheek. “Your timing is impeccable.”
They stayed at Castle Linley only long enough to change clothing. Henrietta longed for a warm bath, but she knew they hadn’t time if they were to make it to Matlock as the men emerged from the Mill. This time she put on a thick tweed skirt and made sure to take her heavy overcoat.
On their way out, they encountered only Lady Linley, sitting in the darkened drawing room and illuminated only by the fire as she sat on the smaller of the two sofas, petting two small dogs on her lap. It struck Henrietta as they passed through that she looked rather lonely and forlorn. Lord Linley was nowhere to be seen. When Clive addressed his aunt, excusing them from dinner due to some urgent business in Matlock, she had seemed startled, as if deep in thought. Clearly the trouble with Wallace had upset her greatly.
When it became apparent to her what Clive was actually saying, his apologies regarding dinner finally sinking in, Lady Linley seemed to rouse herself, then, and exclaimed that surely he didn’t mean to take Henrietta out on a night such as tonight in this very vexing rain? “She’ll catch her death!” she fretted. Had everyone lost their sense?
Clive tried to explain that he very much needed Henrietta with him on a particular errand, but Lady Linley seemed only to be half listening now, as if she already sensed her defeat.
“Oh, well, off you go, then,” she had said, waving her hand dismissively at them as she went back to watching the fire. “No one ever listens to me; why should you?”
“Are you sure, Clive?” Henrietta asked as they bounced along the road toward Matlock, Clive having once again secured the Bentley for their purposes. “You don’t really need me. You’re just being kind, and I love you for it, but perhaps I should stay behind with Lady Linley. It seems cruel to leave her there alone. She seemed so sad.”
“Nonsense!” Clive answered. “Wallace is there if he’d stop acting like a scolded child and come out of his room to attend his mother. And as for you, I do need you, as it happens. I need you to help point out this Rory Fielding; hopefully there will be some sort of family resemblance, and you’ll be able to recognize him.”
Henrietta acknowledged this in her mind to be a bit of a flimsy excuse, but she smiled anyway.
As it turned out, they missed the men coming out of the mill and decided to drive on to the Merry Bells, hoping that Rory might already be there. Perhaps it would be better this way, anyway, Clive mused as he drove, less conspicuous, though he felt uneasy about bringing Henrietta to a working-man’s pub. He tried hard, as they parked and got out of the car, to remember her words about not being a China doll.
As if she could sense his fear, she put a hand on his arm just before they went in. “Clive,” she said softly. “I’ll be okay. Remember who I am. I’m just a 26 girl and a taxi dancer. I’ve seen quite a few things.”
“Of course, darling, I know,” he said, giving her hand a quick squeeze, making a show of his confidence.
Henrietta had no trouble finding the man who looked like an older version of Maxwell, but Clive hesitated before approaching him. What was he to do with Henrietta? Put her in the corner with a drink and hope no one harassed her? No, he would keep her near. Besides, the pub was crowded, and there weren’t many free seats. Accordingly, they both approached the man they assumed was Rory Fielding, Henrietta holding out her hand to him as she asked him if that was indeed his name before Clive even had a chance to say anything. The man looked at them appraisingly before nodding and asking, “What of it?”
Again before Clive could interject, Henrietta hurriedly explained that she had had the pleasure of meeting his younger brother several days ago in Cromford. Rory still seemed suspicious, but when Henrietta prettily asked if she might sit down, he absently waved his hand at the lone chair in front of him. Clive resorted to leaning against the thick, timbered pole that the table butted up to, his arms crossed in front of him in an attempt at casualness.
After Henrietta was seated and leaning toward Rory in what could very possibly be interpreted as a rather alluring, confiding posture, Rory’s countenance changed to one of interest and then concern, though he tried to hide it, and he asked how she had come upon Max and was he in trouble? The man could not help looking at Henrietta, and Clive could see, much to his entertainment, that she was giving him her best smile, complete with dimples, and batting her eyes every now and then. The man appeared mesmerized, and it slowly dawned on Clive that having her along might be less a liability than he imagined. Indeed, having her along—in some cases, anyway—might decidedly be an advantage in getting certain suspects to talk. The strong-arm method worked most of the time, but the attention of a beautiful woman had its charms as well. He watched, amazed, as Henrietta stopped short of outright flirting with this man, assuring him that Maxwell was not in trouble at all, that he was a perfectly delightful boy—Boy!—Clive thought, knowing as he did that Henrietta was certainly not the Oxford man’s elder, and yet she came off as convincingly older than she actually was, a ruse that he himself had fallen for, he remembered, as he absently rubbed his chin, still watching her.
No, she was saying, it was their very good friend, Wallace Howard, who might be the one in trouble.
“What you want with Wallace?” Rory asked, suspicious again, taking a deep drag of his cigarette as he looked Clive up and down through narrowed eyes. “You with the police?”
“Not at all!” Henrietta laughed pleasantly. “This is Clive Howard, Wallace’s cousin. The police seem to think it was Wallace that night, and we’re trying to find out otherwise.”
“It weren’t Wallace,” Rory said, exhaling heavily.
“How do you know?” Clive couldn’t help but put in.
“Cause I knows where ’e was,” Rory said, turning his eyes back to Clive and letting them rest there.
“Did you see him?”
“No. But I knows all the same where ’e was.”
“Can you tell us?” Henrietta asked, drawing his attention back to her. “It’s very important! You must see that, don’t you?”
“He may go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit,” Clive said. “Or worse
, hang.”
They could both see that Rory was hesitating, but he gave a slight shake of his head as he drew on his cigarette again.
“If Wallace ain’t already said, it ain’t my place ta say, either. ’e’s no idjit. ’e has his reasons.”
“Does it have something to do with the socialist party?” Clive asked. “Or even the communists?” He was quiet as he said it, but even so, Rory’s eyes darted round the pub nervously.
He looked back at Clive, puzzled. “Who said anything about that?”
“No one in particular. Just heard that Wallace was involved.”
“That’s ’is own business, too, mate. It ain’t a bloody crime who a man votes for. At least not yet.”
“No, but murder is.”
Rory actually sat back and grinned. “Yer tryin’ ta connect the dots, ain’t ya? But there aren’t enough bloody dots. Wallace didn’t murder that bloke.”
“Do you know who did?”
“No, but I can guess.”
Clive’s hands felt sweaty at the prospect of a revelation. “Go on,” he said steadily.
“Can’t say for sure, like, but if I was a copper, I’d go sniff out a lad by the name of Terrance. Terrance O’Brien.”
Clive felt the hair on the back of his neck rise a little, but he fought to remain calm. “They have. He says he was in all night with his mother.”
Rory laughed wheezily. “’is mother’s on death’s door. She wouldn’t be able ta say if Terry were alive or dead, much less whether ’e sat in with her that night.”
“But if he really stole all this cash, wouldn’t someone have noticed by now?” Clive asked.
“Yer right, there, mate. ’e’s lying low, but ’is cousin, Joe, ain’t. Strangely paid off a lot of gambling debts, did Joe. I know ’cause me sister’s married ta the local bookie, man by the name of Briggs. They lives over Chesterfield way, same as Joe. Briggsy tells me Joe paid ’im for all ’is debts, then up and bought a new suit of clothes, and then, off ’e goes ta London. Now that’s odd, ain’t it?” he said, leaning over his beer and giving them a sideways glance. “People gets ta wonderin’ how ’e came upon such good luck. Says ’e won it on a horse, but Briggsy knows the troof, ’e does.”
“Why hasn’t anyone told the police this?” Clive asked.
Rory shrugged. “Not their bleedin’ business, is it? Jist like it ain’t yers, I’d reckon.” Rory’s eyes flicked from Clive to Henrietta. “This yer da?” he asked, nodding at Clive.
Henrietta laughed. “Mr. Howard is my husband, Mr. Fielding, thank you for asking,” she said with perfect politeness, as if he had just asked after her health. Clive sensed it was time to go, trying to ignore the fact that he had just been confused as being Henrietta’s father. His thoughts anyway were racing with this new information, though he cautiously wondered at the same time why Rory was so eager to prove Wallace innocent. Maybe it was to throw them off the scent. After all, the information he had rendered was all speculative, nothing hard and fast. All the same, he was anxious to relay it to the inspector and quickly calculated in his mind whether Hartle might still be at the station. Perhaps if they hurried …
“Thanks, Mr. Fielding. You’ve been helpful,” Clive managed.
“Don’t kid yerself. I’m trying to help Wallace. We was mates in the war. Like brothers, we was,” he said, which, Clive noted, was all the more reason for him to cover for Wallace.
“Thanks just the same,” Clive said, tipping his hat, as Henrietta stood up, following his lead. “I’ll give him your regards, shall I?”
“Suit yerself,” Rory said, taking a drink.
Clive motioned to Henrietta to make her way toward the door, but before he followed her, he turned back to Rory.
“Just one more thing. Does Wallace drive an old Royal Enfield?” Clive watched Rory’s face intently and thought for sure he saw a ripple of acknowledgement pass over it, but Rory merely shrugged. “Not that I’ve ever seen,” he said noncommittally, but Clive was sure he was lying.
As luck would have it, the inspector was indeed still at the station, and when Clive and Henrietta were shown forthwith into his office, Clive almost smiled at the hasty way in which the inspector jumped to his feet at the sight of Henrietta. Clive watched as the inspector took all of her in and then gave Clive a puzzled look. Clive was not sure whether to be amused or irritated, but he was becoming used to men’s reactions to Henrietta’s beauty.
He cleared his throat. “Detective Chief Inspector Hartle, allow me to introduce my wife, Henrietta Howard. Henrietta, Chief Inspector Hartle.”
The Inspector barely controlled the startled look in his eyes, taking the cigarette from the side of his mouth and inclining his head to her with deep respect. He held out his hand.
“Mrs. Howard. Delighted,” he said with a rare smile. “Please sit down. May I offer you some … tea?” he said, looking around worriedly, as if wondering where he would procure some tea if she did say yes to his offer.
“No, thank you, Inspector,” Henrietta said, confidently taking the seat across the desk from him. “I don’t believe we can stay very long, isn’t that right, darling?” she said, looking at Clive, who returned her gaze with amusement. She was wonderful in public, growing into her role with amazing speed and ability. She had been somewhat shy on the cruise over, still adjusting to being Mrs. Howard, but now, sitting in this musty police station in the middle of England, she positively shone. The inspector, Clive noticed, was trying not to stare.
“No, indeed not,” Clive answered her. He related, then, what he had heard from Rory about O’Brien’s cousin. The inspector, lighting yet another cigarette, seemed delighted to have new information, though Clive warned that Rory had seemed overly eager to shield Wallace, perhaps innocently due to some wartime allegiance, but perhaps because they were connected to something bigger, he suggested.
The inspector nodded at this observation, pondering it.
It was obvious, Clive continued, that they still needed to discover Wallace’s whereabouts that night, that or get a confession from O’Brien. Possibly he and his cousin, Joe, were in on it together, or perhaps Joe was merely sloppy in his handling of his cousin’s new fortune. Clive then proposed that while the inspector and his men follow up with O’Brien, he might be allowed to put into motion a plan for catching Wallace in the act of whatever he was up to.
“I assume you have someone watching him,” Clive stated matter-of-factly, and the inspector, taking a drag, gave the slightest nod of his head, as if Clive had scored a point. “I need you to call him off for a few days. I have an idea, but in order for it to work, Wallace has to believe he’s completely alone.”
“But what about you? You don’t think having his cousin in the house who happens to be an American detective is going to deter him?”
“I’ll arrange for us not to be there; don’t concern yourself on that score.”
Henrietta looked up at him questioningly, but she remained silent.
Hartle stood up and walked to the little window behind him, so foggy and dirty that the outside world was barely visible through it. “All right,” he sighed. “I’ll give you a few days.”
“Thanks, Inspector,” Clive said. “That’s all I need.”
Hartle turned back toward them and nodded. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Howard,” he said to Henrietta as she stood up now.
“Thank you, Inspector.” She smiled as she shook his hand. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.” She turned and walked toward the door, and Clive could not help but notice Hartle staring at her legs as she did so.
Quickly Hartle moved from behind his desk to open his office door for Henrietta, and, as Clive passed through after her, Hartle leaned forward and whispered, “You’re one lucky bastard,” in Clive’s ear.
“I know,” Clive said with a smile, as he firmly placed his hat on his head, and followed Henrietta down the stone steps to the Bentley.
Two days later, Clive and Henrietta, as ar
ranged ahead of time between them, made a large show of leaving on a sightseeing trip to Buxton.
Clive had cleverly announced at dinner the night before that he would like to show Henrietta a bit of the local environs before having to leave for London, that it would be a shame not to. Lady Linley had said that by all means they should see the countryside but could not help but comment that, really, it was very short notice and she would have to inform Stevens right away. She seemed to be of the opinion that it would somehow be a great inconvenience for the servants, though Henrietta rather thought they would be happy to have two less people in the house to look after, but she did not say as much. Lord Linley did not bother to comment at all, having grown very silent since Wallace’s return. Lady Linley then added that she would indeed be sorry to see them go, that they were quite abandoned since all the guests had so quickly taken their leave after the disagreeableness that had occurred. Again, Henrietta observed this to be contradictory, thinking back to how put upon Lady Linley had originally seemed at the prospect of housing and entertaining the house full of guests. Wallace had not been at dinner, but Clive suspected some one among the servants would inform him of their impending departure.
“Do you think it will work?” Henrietta asked as they sped down the country road toward Buxton. Clive had related his mysterious plan to her on the drive home from the station the other night. He explained that they would announce their departure from Castle Linley, but instead of going on a sightseeing trip, they would actually lie in wait for Wallace to make a move and attempt to follow him to whatever mysterious rendezvous he got himself to.
Clive was not only eager to prove Wallace’s innocence in the murder of Ernest Jacobs, but he also hoped to put a stop to any of Wallace’s unfortunate associations, socialist or otherwise, before he did something truly foolish. Clive had chosen his words carefully as he asked Henrietta if she would join him on the case, despite his private feelings of foreboding. He had forced himself to ignore his better judgment and ask Henrietta to help him track Wallace. Whatever anxiety he had felt, it had been momentarily dispelled by her excited acceptance and the resultant joy he read on her face. He tried to remember that now as he shifted the car into a higher gear and looked over at her, smiling and radiant.