A Traitor at Tower Bridge

by Lynda Wilcox

  Until his murder, Sir David Bristol had owned The Daily Banner, the newspaper that young Joe had hawked on the capital’s streets. Eleanor wasn’t surprised to hear that he’d owned a Rolls Royce. Sir David had been a very rich man.

  “That’s right, they do, but I don’t think it’s a car that I’m looking for. Someone saw the letters on a badge, the sort that gets stitched onto a blazer pocket.”

  “What? Like a school or something?”

  Joe’s reward for this bright idea was to have one of his benefactress’s biggest smiles bestowed upon him. He preened in its spotlight, his cheeks — already red from exercise in the cool morning air — becoming even more pink.

  “Yes, something of that nature. Did you ever go south of the river when you were selling the Daily Banner?”

  “No, my lady. That was Bowzer Barlow’s patch. He covered Southwark and Bermondsey.”

  Eleanor’s eyes widened. Some of Joe’s mates had sillier nicknames than her own, high-class, friends.

  “I see. I’m working on a case at the moment that centres on Southwark, so if you ever run into your erstwhile colleague —”

  “Eh? Come again?”

  “I mean Bowzer. If you do see him, then perhaps you’d ask him if he recognises the letters.”

  “I would do, my lady, but I ain’t likely to see him these days, not unless I make a special journey, and it’s a bit far to walk.”

  “You’re quite right, it is.” Eleanor dug into her pocket. “Here. Take this for bus fares.” She passed over enough coins for the boy to take a taxi, never mind a bus, in both directions.

  He opened his mouth to protest, but she waved it away. “If there’s any change then you may put it into your Post Office savings, and if you see, or hear of those letters anywhere around London, please come and let me or Tilly know at Bellevue Mansions.”

  “Right you are, my lady.”

  “And be careful, Joe. I don’t want you getting into any more trouble.”

  “Not like last time.” Tilly chimed in and shivered at the memory.

  Joe grinned then. A cheeky grin with all the insouciance and resilience of youth. It gladdened the hearts of his two female companions for it broadcast louder than any words that the boy was over his ordeal, and none the worse for it.

  “I’ll be good and careful, miss. I promise. This time I’ll watch me back.”

  Tilly sniffed. “Make sure you do, Joe Minshull, or you’ll have me as well as her ladyship to answer to.”

  With this dire threat hanging over his head, they left him to his gardening and went back inside for a last word with his mother.

  “Thank you, again, Mrs Minshull,” Eleanor said. “I’ll let you know when to expect the Duke’s advance party.”

  “Right you are, my lady.”

  Back at Bellevue Mansions, Eleanor left Tilly to go in alone while she picked up the Lagonda from the garage and drove to Shand Street police station. It was time to continue her investigation into Martin Cropper’s disappearance.

  Inside the building, the desk was manned by a young police constable. Eleanor took him to be the whippersnapper mentioned by Mary Cropper and approached him with caution.

  He, on the other hand, appeared unimpressed to be addressed by a real, live Lady. He barely gave Eleanor, or her business card, a glance before returning his attention to the papers on the counter before him.

  “Yes, ma’am? What can I do for you?” he asked in a bored voice.

  He was probably only a year or two younger than Eleanor, but she sized him up as still wet behind the ears, and the sort to let a modicum of power go to his head.

  “I need your help, Sergeant.” She began by promoting him. Most men were amenable to a little flattery, she’d found. “I’m trying to find a man called Martin Cropper. I believe his wife has already called on you and reported him missing.”

  “Has she?”

  Eleanor leant on the counter, putting her palms flat on the papers, forcing him to pay attention to her.

  “Yes. I’d like to know what you are doing about finding him.”

  He gave her a ferocious scowl and sucked his teeth.

  “The same as we always do.”

  “What? Nothing?”

  His sigh was exaggerated. Eleanor ignored it and batted her eyelashes at him. He grinned, and suddenly became more human.

  “Look, ma’am, there’s not much we can do when folks go missing. Sometimes, most times, it’s of their own accord, like. They don’t want to be found.” He ran a hand around his pointed chin. “Do you understand?”

  Eleanor knew what he was getting at and wondered why he didn’t say it out loud. Perhaps he thought her too well bred, or too naive, to comprehend infidelity.

  “Oh, of course, but you see, I’ve checked. All Martin Cropper’s workmates, and his drinking partners, will tell you — should you ever bother to ask — that he was devoted to his wife. She says they had no money worries, so that’s not the reason, either. I really can’t see that the man has simply left his wife for another woman. If that were the case, he would still have continued going to work, yet they haven’t seen him there for a week.”

  “Where did he work?”

  “Bairstow and Son, Painters. He was part of the team painting Tower Bridge.”

  The constable shook his head, brown eyes sombre. “Well, there you are, then. He could have fallen in the river. If there’s been an accident at work then it should have been reported, but not all employers are honest enough to bother.”

  Eleanor wasn’t convinced. She’d formed a good opinion of John Bairstow.

  “His colleagues would surely have said something.”

  “Have you checked the hospitals?”

  She shook her head. “It’s next on my list of places to try.”

  “St Bartholemew’s and St Thomas’s are the closest. That’s where he’ll be if he had an accident, or if he’d fallen into the river.” He tapped a pencil against the counter. “Which he could have done, either at work, or if he was drunk. You mentioned his drinking mates.” He raised an eyebrow in question.

  Eleanor wrinkled her nose. “Who all say that he never had more than a pint, so he wouldn’t be staggering around that drunk that he fell into the river.”

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am. I can’t see that there’s anything we can do.” The constable returned to shuffling his papers.

  About to give up in despair, Eleanor turned to go, then swung back. “What about unclaimed bodies?”

  “What about them?” He looked up and directly at her, registering his surprise at the question.

  “Well? Have you got any?”

  “Not so far as I know, but if he did end up in the Thames, for whatever reason, then that’s the responsibility of the River Police.” He sounded relieved to have got the matter off his hands. “That’s the Thames Division and you’ll find them over on the north bank, in Wapping High Street. I’d try there if I were you.”

  With a sigh, Eleanor thanked him and went back to her car.

  Chapter 8

  Mary Cropper might already have checked her local hospitals before calling on Lady Eleanor, though while she was still on the south bank of the river, and to be on the safe side, her ladyship visited them again. As she expected, it was a complete waste of time. Neither St Thomas’s nor St Bartholomew’s had ever had a patient by the name of Martin Cropper, nor any that were unclaimed.

  Sighing at the thought of having to deal with more unhelpful policemen, Eleanor crossed the river at Tower Bridge and was pleasantly surprised on arrival at the River Police’s HQ in Wapping to be warmly welcomed by the officer on duty.

  Sergeant Yates was a burly man in his early fifties with close cropped dark hair that still managed to curl around his ears. Brown eyes twinkled at her from out of his round, slightly chubby face.

  “Good afternoon, my lady,” he said, when she gave him her card and introduced herself.

  His smile faded, though, when she explained her mission.


  “I’m sorry to hear that, and even sorrier to say that we’ve had several bodies recovered from the river in the last week or so. The man you’re looking for may be among them.” He screwed up his face to peer at her kindly. “I’ll give the morgue a ring, if you like. It’ll save you going there unnecessarily.”

  Eleanor shivered at the thought and took a tight grip of the counter’s edge

  “Thank you, Sergeant. I’d be most grateful if you would.”

  He pulled a sheet of paper and a pencil towards him. “If I could just take a few details. Have you a description of the man you’re looking for?”

  “Yes. His wife described him as tall, and blond with blue eyes. When she spoke, I got the impression of a Nordic type, if you know what I mean.”

  “I see.” The sergeant scratched at his head with the end of the pencil, then proceeded to write down what she’d said. “Like a Swedish man, or a Norwegian, then. Yes, I get the picture. Anything else?”

  “Yes.” A clear picture of Mary talking of her husband, swam into Eleanor’s mind. “He has a heart-shaped mole on the inside of his right knee.”

  “Good-o! That should help find him, if the morgue’s got him.” Putting the pencil in his top pocket, he picked up the paper. “Take a seat, my lady, and I’ll bring you a cup of tea. It’ll take a few minutes to make the phone call, and you may as well be comfy.”

  He disappeared into an inner office and Eleanor did as she was told, although the wooden chair was far from comfortable. She sat with her legs crossed at the knee, hugging her handbag to her middle, wondering if she’d reached the end of her search. If so, she didn’t relish the thought of telling Mary Cropper the outcome. Yet, the woman must always have known, or at least guessed, that some harm had befallen her husband. Tilly had been right when she’d pointed that out.

  Hope may spring eternal, but Mary had been praying for a miracle, something that Eleanor could not provide.

  The tea when it came was hot and refreshing and far too strong for her liking. She drank it, nevertheless, while trying to come up with consoling words and phrases to offer her client.

  When the sergeant returned, his glum face revealed the worst. He leaned across the counter towards her.

  “I’m afraid we’ve got your man, your ladyship, though he will need to be formally identified. Could you...?”

  “I’m afraid not, Sergeant. I’ve never met the man. I must go and tell his wife, but then I could take her round there.”

  He shook his head at the suggestion. “If you’re going there to see her now, you might either take me with you, or bring her back here.”

  Eleanor’s cup rattled in its saucer and she carried it to the counter and set it down. Her slim frame shuddered.

  “Martin Cropper didn’t drown?” she asked.

  He gave a brief shake of the head. “According to the medical examiner, he was dead before he went in the water.”

  “How?”

  “Stabbed. There’s a wound in his side.”

  She gaped at the policeman. “So, it’s murder.”

  “I’m afraid so.” He reached under the counter for a form, retrieved his pencil, and gave her a stern look. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you for more details.”

  This time, as well as information on both Martin and Mary Cropper, he asked for her full name and address, even her age.

  With her mind in a whirl she answered as best as she could, and included the people she had spoken to so far in her search, Cropper’s employer, workmates, the landlord and customers of the Crown and Anchor. She included every last scrap of information she could think of, anything that might bring the killer to justice.

  By the time she had finished she could have fallen asleep on the spot but, desperate as she was to go home and put herself into Tilly’s tender care, she still had to tell Mary the bad news.

  At the sergeant’s request they drove out to Southwark to the neat little cottage inhabited by the Croppers. It was fortunate that he had agreed to go with her, rather than driving there himself, otherwise she might not have found the house in the tangled maze of backstreets.

  Thanks to his directions, the journey didn’t take long, though Eleanor dreaded the job she had to do once they arrived. However, the task was done for her when Mary opened the door, took one look at the sergeant and dissolved into tears.

  “I knew it,” she wailed. “I knew somethin’ awful must have happened to him. ’E’d have been home by now, else.”

  Eleanor stepped through the open doorway and into the small front parlour. Putting an arm around the woman’s heaving shoulders, she guided her to a lumpy settee and sat beside her. “I’m so sorry, Mrs Cropper. This is Sergeant Yates from the River Police. He will tell you what happened. He has some questions for you.” She threw the sergeant a look that pleaded with him to be gentle. He might think Mary a suspect in her husband’s murder, but the woman’s distraught state surely indicated otherwise.

  Mary ignored the sergeant and raised a tearful face. “My man’s been killed, ain’t ’e?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mrs Cropper.” The sergeant shifted his bulky figure to stand directly in front of the widow. He spoke kindly enough, but he gave no inkling whether he shared Eleanor’s belief in her client’s innocence. “If you feel up to it, we’ll need you to identify him.”

  Eleanor took a deep breath. “Is there a relative or friend that you’d like to go with you? I’m quite happy to drive you there.”

  Mary requested that her sister, who lived only three doors away be allowed to go with her then, when the sergeant acceded to this request, pulled herself together and submitted to his questioning.

  Her answers corresponded with the story she had given Eleanor two days earlier and the sergeant seemed happy with her responses, all of which he wrote down in his notebook before going to fetch the woman from three doors down.

  Mary’s sister, Janet, was a jolly woman with a well rounded figure, a stark contrast to her sibling. Eleanor took to her on sight and felt a degree of relief that she was leaving her client in safe hands.

  “You can come and stay with me, if you like, Mary. Or I’ll move in here with you. I don’t like the idea of you being alone.”

  Mary shook her head. “I shall be all right, though I’d be grateful for the company. It’s going to be awful lonely around the place without Martin here.” She sniffed and dabbed her eyes with a wisp of cotton handkerchief. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to it, but oh!” she let out an anguished cry and collapsed into her sister’s arms.

  Eleanor drove them all to the morgue, where Mary confirmed that the dead man was Martin. Then she drove the two women home again.

  “How much do I owe you, my lady?” Mary leaned forward from the back seat.

  She was clearly anxious to pay her debts, but Eleanor brushed the question aside and twisted to face the woman.

  “Nothing, Mrs Cropper, really. I barely did enough to warrant a fee, and I’m so very sorry things have turned out this way.”

  A shaking hand fell on her shoulder. “Then will you take on another commission from me and find out who murdered my husband? I shan’t rest until the culprit is brought to justice.”

  “The police —”

  “Damn the police, begging your ladyship’s pardon. They don’t care, and they won’t go out of their way to find who killed Martin. I need someone I can trust. Someone who’ll do what they say they will. Please, my lady.”

  Even if she had wanted to, Eleanor could neither resist nor refuse such a heartfelt plea, and she had to admit to being intrigued. If Martin’s murder was merely a hold-up gone wrong, or the work of a homicidal maniac, then she stood scant chance of finding the killer, but she had a hunch there was more to it than that.

  “Very well. I make no promises, but I’ll do my best to find out as much as I can. I understand your need for justice, Mrs Cropper.”

  Did Mary understand that it would mean asking more probing and personal questions than she
might care to answer; that Martin may have had secrets that Mary wouldn’t want either to know about, or have uncovered; and that if you lifted up enough rocks, you were bound to find something nasty underneath one of them?

  Did Mary understand all that?

  The hand on Eleanor’s shoulder formed into a claw that gripped tightly for a moment.

  “I want the truth.”

  Mary understood well enough, and Eleanor nodded in acceptance of the further commission. It was a decision she would come to regret.

  Chapter 9

  Eleanor sank down into the scented bathwater and thought about truth. What was it? Would she recognise it if she ever saw it? All well and good for Mary Cropper to say she wanted it, wanted to know why her husband had been murdered, but truth would not bring him back. Truth would not wipe the tears from Mary’s face, nor hold her in comforting arms through a dark night.

  And where was Eleanor to look for it? She had accepted the task, but where should she start?

  Not in her own bathtub, that was for sure.

  Wishing she could stay where she was in the warmth of the water, Eleanor reached for the tablet of Pears soap on the bath stand and began to wash away the cares and worries of the day. How much nicer it would be to remain at home, curled up with a good book and Tilly for company, than to drag herself out again to yet another beastly party.

  “I’m sure it won’t be beastly at all,” Tilly said, after Eleanor had expressed the sentiment to her maid.

  Eleanor shrugged and gazed at her reflection in the mirror, while Tilly combed and styled her still damp hair. “Possibly not.”

  “And you’ll be among friends. You’re going with Lady Ann, aren’t you, and there’s sure to be many more of your friends there.”

  Eleanor and Lady Ann Carstairs had been in their last year at finishing school together when the war had interrupted their education. Ann had found a job as a clerk in the War Office, while Eleanor had trained as a mechanic, repairing staff cars and military vehicles.