A Traitor at Tower Bridge

by Lynda Wilcox

  It was time she returned to Tower Bridge and spoke to them again, especially the attractive, engaging foreman.

  “How recently have these men joined the rowing club?” She waved the piece of paper at Squidgy.

  “I can’t say for sure, but it would be in the last few months. Grenville said they had all become members this year, which is what I’d asked him for. I said I wanted to give newer members a chance at the regatta. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  He looked a little crestfallen at the thought that he’d misunderstood Eleanor’s request. She hastened to reassure him.

  “Yes, that’s what I asked for. I was wondering, though, if the list is in chronological order.”

  “Eh?”

  Eleanor rephrased the question.

  “Oh, I see what you mean.” Squidgy looked relieved. “Yes, the names at the top joined in January, the bottom ones are the most recent.”

  Which meant that McIntyre had been a member for only a scant few weeks, and only since Martin Cropper’s disappearance.

  “Excellent. Good work, Sebastian, and thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I hope it’s of use to you.” He got to his feet. “Now, if you don’t mind...”

  “Of course not. Good luck with Phillipa, not that I think you’ll need it, and do let me know how you get on.”

  After he’d departed she made herself a cocktail and stared at the list for a long time before turning her gaze to the fire.

  “Oh, Peter, I miss you,” she murmured. If he had been alive she might have discussed this latest finding with him, talking things through, thrashing them out, trying to make sense of the information she’d been given. As it was, it wasn’t McIntyre’s name that bothered her, but the other recent addition to the rowing club’s membership. It might just be a coincidence but...

  She rang Lady Ann Carstairs.

  “Darling!” Ann’s laughter tinkled along the wires. “What strange questions you do ask. How many people do I know with the same set of initials?”

  “Yes.”

  “Heavens to Betsy, I don’t know. I suppose there’s Andrew Asquith, and Georgina Galbraith.”

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant.”

  “Well, pardon me. You might at least let a girl have a drink before you turn into the Spanish Inquisition.”

  Eleanor cast a guilty glance at her own glass. “Sorry, old thing. What I meant was different people with the same initials. Like Eleanor Bakewell and Ethel Barrymore, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, hundreds I should think. Are you planning parlour games or something?”

  “I wish it was that innocent. Listen, do any of these names mean anything to you?” She read out the list that Squidgy had given her.

  “Only Willy Woodrow. Ha! There’s one with the same set of initials. I had quite a crush on him when I was younger, he was so handsome in his Royal Flying Corps uniform. Then he became a barrister and I lost all interest. Are you going to tell me what this is about, or do I have to guess?”

  “They’ve all become members of the Rother Rowing Club this year.”

  “Hmm. So you think one of them might be the man you’re after.”

  “It’s possible, though I’m more confused than ever. My thinking is muddled.”

  “Well, I can’t imagine why you came to me to help you sort it out. Muddled is my permanent state of mind.”

  Eleanor knew that not to be the case. Ann was an astute and well-organised businesswoman and a very good friend. She could be forgiven her fondness for strong drink — and strong men — because they merely served to mask a good heart. Ann’s quick, if mercurial thinking had got them out of many a scrape when they had been at finishing school together.

  She talked about most things with Ann. The only thing that Eleanor had never shared with her — she had been forbidden from talking of it to anyone — was her wartime work in Military Intelligence. She even found herself loth to discuss it with Tilly, even though the two of them had been involved on the same secret mission under Peter Armitage’s command.

  “Never mind, Ann. It’s helped to talk it over with you, even if only to prove that I’m on the wrong track. Thanks.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome, and if you want anyone to help you interview some fit young men, then I’m your girl, remember.”

  Eleanor laughed, repeated her thanks and rang off.

  Really, it was too bad of Armitage to come back into her life and then get himself killed when she needed him. Especially as she was fast coming to the conclusion that the man in the Rother Rowing Club blazer had more to do with his case than with her own.

  Chapter 20

  With Cameron McIntyre on the list of rowing club members as supplied by Squidgy, there was nothing for it the next morning but to go and speak to him again. That would be no hardship, there was a degree of animal magnetism about the man that Eleanor could not deny, but she doubted that he had been the man in the blazer spotted by Harry, talking to Cropper outside the Crown and Anchor. The timing was all wrong.

  However, before she did so, she drove the Lagonda around to Berkeley Square and spoke to Joe.

  “I’m going to Southwark. Would you like to come with me?”

  She might have offered him the moon, or cake, or cooked breakfasts, even ice cream and he would not have looked more happy. His eyes lit up and he almost clapped his hands in excitement.

  “You bet. Are we working?”

  “Yes, sort of. I need to speak to various people, and if I drop you off in Southwark, can you make your way from there to Rotherhithe? I’d like you to have a nose around the rowing club.” She raised an admonishing finger. “But carefully, you understand.”

  She asked him to make discreet enquiries about both Stephen Leather and Cameron McIntyre.

  “All right, what is it you want to know about them?”

  “How often they are there, and whereabouts they row. If they go upstream towards the Tower and the Bridge. I’m sure that one, or both, is up to no good along that stretch of the Thames, but I don’t know exactly what.”

  Eleanor considered these points as she nosed the Lagonda through central London towards the river, the boy wide-eyed beside her. The fact that the foreman had joined the club after Cropper had disappeared was intriguing and she looked forward to what he would have to say about it. He would not convince her if he said that he simply enjoyed rowing.

  She came to a halt on the approach to the crossing for Tower Bridge was opening, the magnificent bascules that formed the roadway between the two main piers, rising into the air, letting through a vessel to continue its journey down river. It was a breathtaking sight, and it didn’t matter how many times Eleanor had seen it — not often as it happened, for all that she lived in London and drove its streets on a regular basis — it never failed to thrill her.

  It thrilled her passenger, too.

  “Wow! Look at that and there’s a ship going through.” He peered out the side window, looking down towards the river. “I can’t wait to tell Mum and Georgie I’ve seen this.”

  “Haven’t you seen it before?”

  “Don’t think so. When I sold my papers for the Daily Banner, I was a long way from the river.”

  Eleanor nodded, her eyes still on the opening bridge.

  The whole operation was very smooth and it took hardly any time at all to raise and lower the roadway. Eleanor was soon on her way again.

  As she drove across, she kept her eyes peeled for the painters on the southern stretch and saw them still hard at work. She carried on past and parked the Lagonda as close as she could get to the bridge.

  “Will you be all right from here, Joe?” She delved into her purse. “Here’s money for your transport. When you’re done take a taxi back to Piccadilly and come and let me know how you’ve got on, will you?”

  “You gave me money the other day.” He shook his head and gave her a look she could not interpret. It never crossed her mind, busy thinking of other things as she was, that taxi
drivers were not in the habit of picking up small boys, even when hailed.

  They parted company and Eleanor walked back along the bridge towards where she had seen the painting gang. However, Cameron McIntyre was not among them.

  “Oh, it’s you again, my lady.” The man called Geoff answered her question. He was outside their hut and the door was open. Eleanor could see the two men inside pouring tea from Thermos flasks, though their heads were hidden by the angle of the door. “Cameron ain’t here. He didn’t show up yesterday, nor again this morning.”

  Eleanor’s heart lurched, Another one missing?

  “Is he sick do you know?”

  “Dunno, He was fine when we clocked off night before last. You’d have to ask Mr Bairstow about that, though I’m not sure he knows either.”

  “You say he was fine. You mean he was well? What about his mood?”

  Geoff sighed and turned his head, calling through the open doorway of the hut. “Pass us a mug of that tea, will you, lads. Her ladyship is here again asking about Cam.”

  The older man of the crew put his head out. “Not seen ’im for a day or so.”

  “But he seemed all right?”

  A hand bearing a steaming mug shot out between the two men. Geoff grabbed it and drank thirstily. “Sorry, my lady, we don’t get long for a tea break.” He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “Cam was hale and hearty last I saw him. Ain’t that right, Will?”

  Will was obviously the old man, for it was he who answered. “That’s about it. We’ve not a lot to do now, with the paintin’ I mean, which is why I reckon Bairstow ain’t replaced him on the gang.”

  “Yeah, go and talk to him.” Geoff nodded his head. “And when you find Cam, tell him he owes me money, will you.”

  “Oh?” Eleanor wrinkled her brow.

  Geoff grinned at her. “Yeah, I bet him you’d come calling again, asking more questions, but he reckoned you’d have other things to occupy you right now. Ha! Seems I was right.”

  Eleanor’s mind whirled. She thanked them absently, aware that they were probably glad to see the back of her, and returned to the Lagonda.

  She got in, but didn’t immediately start the engine.

  What had happened to McIntyre? Was it merely coincidence that he had failed to show up for work for two days? And what on earth did he mean when he’d said that Eleanor would have other things to occupy her? Did he think her merely a dilettante, not serious about investigating Cropper’s disappearance? Or, or...?

  Was it the foreman who had shot at them after their visit to Waterman’s Hall? Had he killed the major? Impossible to think it, yet it might be so, especially if she had been his intended victim and not Peter Armitage.

  Had her questions about Cropper provoked the murderous attack?

  Eleanor felt hot tears sting her eyes. She put her hands together on the steering wheel and laid her head against them, fighting the void that her thoughts had reopened, trying to make sense of it all.

  A tapping at the car’s window made her lift her head. A frowning policeman peered at her.

  “Are you all right, miss?” he asked.

  Eleanor reached for a handkerchief and wiped the tears away. “Yes, thank you, constable.” She started the engine. “Just a bit of bad news, that’s all.” She smiled tremulously at him.

  “Right you are, miss. Are you on the way home?”

  Eleanor agreed that she was, even though had too much to do before she returned to Bellevue Mansions.

  “Take care then, and drive safely.” The constable saluted and stood back, and Eleanor pulled away from the kerb and into the Southwark traffic.

  Needing to take herself in hand, she drove around searching for the tea shop the major had taken her to, and wishing she had Tilly with her. Tilly would have told her to pull herself together, that she was perfectly capable of solving this case without Peter Armitage’s help or interference, and that she was better off without him in her life. In her view, the major had an annoying tendency to put her mistress in harm’s way, endangering her every time he showed up.

  Eleanor sighed. What Tilly didn’t know was that she enjoyed that risk, the whiff of danger, and the frisson of excitement she always felt when Peter was with her. Now it was gone forever and her life felt the poorer for his loss.

  She found the tea shop, parked the Lagonda, and went in. A man at a table near the door let out a loud whistle. He stood up and bowed deeply. Eleanor had no idea who he was and was about to say something when a scuffle at the rear of the tea shop distracted her. She looked up as a door banged, and noted an overturned chair. Wondering what on earth was going on, she was about to pass by, when the man asked her to join him.

  “There’s a seat here, lovely lady. Won’t you take it?”

  She looked more closely at the jowly face with its round red nose, then lowered her glance to his hands. Hands that were large with tattoos on the knuckles.

  “Not today, I’m sorry.”

  He resumed his seat and made no further effort to detain her. He buried his nose in his teacup, turning his face away.

  Eleanor walked on through the largely empty tables and by the time she reached the counter the owner had righted the chair and was chatting to the waitress. Giving the incident no more thought, she took a seat and ordered a pot of tea.

  While she waited, she pondered what might be a second disappearance. Could it be that someone was targeting the painters at Tower Bridge? For what reason? A vendetta against the company, perhaps? Eleanor was unconvinced. According to Mr Bairstow the job wasn’t far from completion and, although they had a deadline, having replaced Martin Cropper almost immediately he expected them to be finished on time.

  In a short while she would visit Mr Bairstow in the hope that he would merely report that McIntyre was sick or on holiday. She dreaded the thought of returning to the Southwark police station and making enquiries there, though the thought reminded her that she had heard nothing from Chief Inspector Blount about his investigation. Was that a good or bad thing?

  “There you are, Miss.” The waitress placed a cup and saucer and a teapot in front of Eleanor, but held onto the tray with the sugar bowl and milk jug still on it. “Do you mind if I ask if you’re all right? That man at the front wasn’t bothering you, was he?”

  Eleanor looked to the door, but the table there was now empty. “No, I’m fine, thank you. Perhaps he just wanted company.”

  “Oh, right. I hope he doesn’t come back. I don’t like him upsetting customers.” She finally put the milk and sugar down, and wandered back to the counter.

  Eleanor poured milk into her cup, then added the tea. It was relatively easy to change a face. Actors often had to do so, using make-up, beards, and wigs. It is far harder to disguise one’s hands. She thought of Tilly’s working hands, Ann’s pale slim ones with painted nails at the end of her long fingers, the major’s hands, square and neatly manicured.

  Certain that she had never seen the man at the door before, she was about to dismiss the whole episode when a sudden thought made her see it in a different light.

  Am I being watched? Or watched over?

  A shiver ran down her back. She gulped hot tea and berated herself for being fanciful.

  She spent several minutes in thought, then finished her tea and got to her feet.

  A short time later a glum-faced Bairstow looked over his desk at Eleanor and gave a slow shake of his head.

  “I don’t know where he’s got to,” he said. “McIntyre didn’t report for work yesterday, nor again today.” He sucked his teeth. “That’s two of my best men gone in the space of a fortnight. Lord knows what’s going off. I hope he hasn’t gone and got himself murdered like Cropper did.”

  It was an odd way of looking at it, Eleanor thought. She herself had wondered if the two men had met the same fate, but nobody deliberately ‘got themself murdered’, as Bairstow had put it.

  “How much longer before the work at Tower Bridge is finished?”

&nb
sp; “The men should be done in another week, though I’ve plenty more contracts waiting for them after that.” He gave smug smile. “They won’t be out of work.”

  “Are you replacing McIntyre?”

  “No, there’s not much point with so little time left.”

  “I understood he was the foreman of the crew on the south side. What did that entail?”

  “Yes, that’s right, he was. He was largely responsible for the ordering of supplies from the depot here, and he held the keys to their lock-up.”

  “Really?” Eleanor felt a shiver of apprehension. “So who has them now?”

  Bairstow frowned. “I don’t see what this has to do with the men’s disappearance, Lady Eleanor.”

  Neither did she, and yet she felt she was coming closer to a solution. “Perhaps it doesn’t, but humour me, please.”

  He gave a sniff that Tilly would have been proud of. “Well, in that case, Simon Lauder has them.”

  “He’s the man who replaced Martin Cropper, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, that’s right. It was quite fortuitous as I recall. He called in on the Monday lunchtime asking if we had any vacancies, and I set him on straight away.”

  “You were happy with his work?”

  “McIntyre said he had no cause for complaint.”

  “And you didn’t consider any of the other men for the role of foreman?”

  Bairstow was clearly getting tired of all her questions for his answer was curt. “No. He volunteered. There’s only a week to go.”

  He stressed the words ‘to go’ as if wishing that Eleanor would to the same. Instead, she changed the subject.

  “Will there be a pension for Mrs Cropper?”

  “Yes, a small one. We try to take care of our staff, though they don’t appear to be taking much care of themselves at the moment.”

  Eleanor doubted that Bairstows themselves would be paying out. Cropper had probably paid in to a staff scheme, so Mary would only be getting the same money back.