“I’ve got tea,” said Rose when she entered the room. “There was no one upstairs. I’ll wait until they have gone this evening and smuggle the tea things back. Mrs. Danby won’t see me. She never even comes near us any more, and Captain Cathcart must have forgotten that we wanted real work.”
“I’ve got the pies. Look at me coat,” said Daisy. “Soaked already. We’ll never get home in this.”
“Home,” echoed Rose bleakly, thinking of that awful room.
“Look, I bought the Daily Mail. There’s something about a society murder. Here’s your pie. You’ll need to eat it out of the newspaper wrapping. No plates.”
Rose took a bite of the pie. “This is really good. We should buy another two to take home.”
“I say!” exclaimed Daisy. “You’ll never believe who’s gone and got himself murdered.”
“Who?”
“That Freddy Pomfret. Remember him? We met him at Telby Castle last year.”
“So we did,” said Rose.
“It says here, ‘Man-about-town, the Honourable Mr. Frederick Pomfret, was found shot dead in his town flat in St. James.’ ”
As Daisy read on, Rose furrowed her brow. She remembered Freddy as vacuous and silly with his white face and patent leather hair. Hardly the man to incite anyone to murder him. But there was something else, something about Freddy nagging at the back of her mind.
At the end of the working day, they went out into a white world. London had gone to sleep under a thick blanket of snow.
“Let’s see if the underground is working,” said Daisy. “The Central London Railway goes to Holborn and then we can walk home.”
They stumbled through white drifts to King William Street Station and took the hydraulic lift down to the platforms. Trains consisted of three carriages hauled by electric locomotives. These were powered by the largest power-generating station in the country. The coaches were known as padded cells and they were long and narrow with high-backed cushioned seats and no windows. Gatemen stood on platforms at the end of each carriage to call out the names of the stations.
They paid the two pennies each fare and waited in the crush until they managed to get on “the tube,” as it was known.
“We should have travelled like this before,” said Rose. “The omnibus is so slow. Why didn’t we think about it?”
“I did,” said Daisy. “But it frightens me to be so far underground with all them buildings on top of us.”
They got out at Holborn Station. The snow, which had eased a little when they left the office, had returned in all its ferocity. By the time they reached the hostel, they were cold and their clothes were soaked.
Rose searched in her purse. “I have no pennies left. What about you?”
“No, but I’ve found a way to fix it.” Daisy crouched over the meter with an army knife bristling with gadgets and fiddled about with a thin blade until a penny rattled down and then another.
“Oh, Daisy, that’s robbery.”
“That’s warmth,” said Daisy cheerfully, dropping the coins back in, turning the dial and then lighting the small gas fire. They took off their wet clothes. Rose still felt self-conscious at disrobing in front of Daisy, but Daisy had no such qualms. She stripped naked and then wrapped herself in a wool dressing-gown and began to hang her clothes in front of the fire. Rose followed suit.
“Have we anything to eat?” she asked.
“’Fraid not,” said Daisy gloomily.
There was a knock at the door. Rose opened it a crack. Miss Harringey stood there. “A gentleman has called,” she said, her voice heavy with disapproval.
“Did he give a name?”
“A Mr. Jarvis.”
“Tell him to wait and I will be down directly.”
Rose scrambled into dry clothes, leaving off the misery of stays, and hurried down the stairs.
Mr. Jarvis stood in the hallway carrying a basket. “Mr. Jarvis! How on earth did you get here in this dreadful weather?” asked Rose.
“I rode one of the big horses, one of the ones that pull the fourgon. Here are some things for you”—he proffered the basket—”and here is a letter. Please do not say anything. I think the lady of the house is listening. Good evening.”
He opened the street door and mounted the large shire-horse which was tethered outside, by dint of scraping snow off the low wall outside the house and using it as a mounting block.
Rose hurried upstairs. In the room, she opened the letter. It was from her mother, Lady Polly, to say that they had returned from Nice and would Rose please stop all this nonsense and come home.
“What’s in the basket?” asked Daisy.
Rose lifted the cloth cover and gave a delighted cry. “Food! Oh, do look, Daisy. Game pie and wine and biscuits, cake, tea, coffee, and he’s even put in a bottle of milk. And there are other things.”
Daisy laid two plates and two cups on the table along with the cheap knives and forks they had purchased. “We’ll need to drink the wine out of teacups.”
“We haven’t a corkscrew.”
“I have,” said Daisy, producing the knife again and twisting a corkscrew out from among the many implements.
As their clothes steamed and the room warmed up, both began to feel more cheerful. “I know what it was,” said Rose suddenly.
“What?”
“About Freddy Pomfret. When I was working as secretary, one of the clerks came in and said, ‘Mr. Pomfret has very generous friends.’ Mr. Beveridge asked him what he meant and he said, ‘Three people have paid large deposits into his account so we don’t need to send him any more letters about his overdraft.’ ”
“Probably his relatives. But why didn’t they pay up before? What you getting at?”
Rose was about to correct Daisy’s grammar and remind her not to be so familiar but in time remembered that they were supposed to be on an equal footing.
“There must be some reason he was murdered. What if he was blackmailing people?”
Daisy looked doubtful. She thought it highly unlikely. The Freddy she remembered was silly but not villainous. Still, if Rose’s detective urges had started up again, perhaps she would get in touch with Captain Cathcart. Daisy had a fondness for the captain’s servant, Becket.
“We could ask Captain Cathcart.”
“Perhaps. I would like to see the books and then perhaps go to Scotland Yard and talk to Superintendent Kerridge.”
Daisy’s face fell. “Could we see the captain first?”
But Rose wanted to show the infuriating Harry that she could be a better detective than he was.
“I’ll see what I can do tomorrow.”
“If we can even get to work,” Daisy pointed out.
The next morning was cold and still but the snow had stopped. As Rose and Daisy slipped and stumbled their way along to the underground station at Holborn, Rose wished she had packed her riding breeches. These long skirts and petticoats were useless attire for getting to work through a snowfall.
The City was quiet, shrouded in a blanket of snow. They had to knock at the bank door to gain admittance. At last one of the clerks opened the door to them.
“Nobody’s turned up except me,” he said. “I keep the door locked because anyone could walk in and rob the bank. Charles, the doorman, hasn’t turned up and he’s really got no excuse. He lives in the City. May I get you ladies anything? Tea?”
“Maybe later,” said Rose. “We’ll let you know. Thank you.”
Once they were in their office, Rose whispered, “This is a perfect opportunity. I’ll go upstairs to the counting-house and start searching.”
“What about the banking hall?”
“The records won’t be there. In any case, everything in the banking hall will be tightly locked.”
Daisy lit the fire and then waited impatiently. Outside, she could hear the scraping of shovels and then the swish of brooms as the street-sweepers got to work. A shaft of sunlight suddenly shone down through the grimy window.
&
nbsp; Then there came a banging at the front door. Daisy stayed where she was, nervously chewing at a thumb-nail.
She heard the clerk running down the stairs. She stood up and opened the door of her office a crack. She heard the doorman complaining that he had a bad leg and it had taken him ages to struggle through the snow and then a female voice. Mrs. Danby. Oh, where was Rose?
An hour passed. Daisy was just about to go out and up the stairs in case Rose was in trouble when the door opened and Rose slipped in.
“Where have you been?” hissed Daisy.
Rose sank down in her chair. “It took me ages. But I’ve got some interesting information. Get on your coat and hat, Daisy.
We’re going to Scotland Yard. I telephoned Detective Superintendent Kerridge.”
“But what about old Danby?”
“We’ll just need to risk her not knowing we even turned up for work.” They covered their typewriters and put on their coats, hats and gloves. Opening the door of their office, they crept out. To their relief, they could hear the doorman complaining about his leg to someone in the banking hall off to the left of the main door.
“Quickly,” said Rose.
Curs’d be the Bank of England notes, that tempt a soul to sin.
—SIR THEODORE MARTIN
Detective Superintendent Kerridge found he was looking forward to meeting Lady Rose again. After he had received her telephone call, he had in turn phoned Captain Cathcart. It pleased him to think they would all be together again, as they had been during that investigation the previous year at Telby Castle.
Kerridge was a grey man: grey hair, grey eyebrows, heavy grey moustache. He stood at the window of his office looking out at the Thames, and while he waited, he wrapped himself in one of his favourite dreams. In his mind he was a thinner, younger Kerridge manning the barricades at the People’s Revolution of England. “Down with the aristocrats!” he yelled and his supporters cheered. A beautiful young girl threw her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth. Kerridge blinked that part of the dream away. It was wrong to be unfaithful to his wife, even in dreams.
The door opened and Inspector Judd ushered Harry Cathcart in. “What’s this all about?” asked Harry.
“I received a telephone call from Lady Rose. She says she has vital information concerning the death of Freddy Pomfret.”
“I don’t know how she could have come by any information about society at all in her present occupation.”
“Which is?”
“I’d better see if she wants to tell you.”
The door opened again. “Lady Rose Summer and Miss Levine,” announced Judd.
“Your maid may wait outside,” said the detective, who had met Daisy before.
“Miss Levine is no longer my maid. She is my friend. She may stay.”
“Where’s Becket?” asked Daisy.
“In Chelsea,” said Harry. Daisy’s face fell.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Rose.
“I was summoned by Mr. Kerridge,” said Harry, looking at Rose and thinking that a working life did not suit her. The hem of her coat was soaking from melted snow, her face was thinner and her eyes tired.
“Please sit down,” ordered Kerridge. “Tea?”
“Oh, I would like tea,” said Rose, “and perhaps some biscuits. We are very hungry.”
Kerridge picked up the phone and ordered tea, biscuits and cakes.
“Now, Lady Rose,” he said. “Tell me what you have found out.”
“Miss Levine and I have been working as typists at Drevey’s bank.”
“Why were you working as a typewriter?” asked Kerridge, who did not approve of new-fangled words like “typist.”
“Because I wished to earn my living.”
“But you are taking employment away from some woman who really needs it,” said Kerridge.
“On the contrary. Captain Cathcart here arranged the work and it is make-work. Neither Miss Levine nor I are doing anything constructive. But if we could move on from your radical views, sir . . .”
“Go on.”
“For a short time I was working for a Mr. Beveridge as his secretary. While I was in his office, one of the clerks came in and said something about large sums of money being deposited in Freddy Pomfret’s account.
“Today, because of the snow, the bank was quiet, few having turned up to work. I went upstairs and searched until I found a statement of his account. During the last few months, three large sums of money were paid into that account. Each for ten thousands pounds.”
“Who gave him the money?”
“Lord Alfred Curtis, Mrs. Angela Stockton, and Mrs. Jerry Trumpington. I think,” said Rose triumphantly, “that they were being blackmailed.”
“People lose a lot of money at cards,” Harry pointed out.
“Not for the same amount of money.”
“Lady Rose has a good point there,” said Kerridge, and Rose flashed Harry a triumphant look. “His flat had been turned over, papers thrown everywhere, but his jewellery was left and fifty pounds in a desk drawer. So what do you know of those three?”
“I met Mrs. Jerry last year, Mr. Kerridge,” said Rose, “and so did you. Large, gross sort of woman.”
“I remember.”
“I do not know Mrs. Stockton or Lord Alfred.”
“I do,” said Harry. “Mrs. Stockton is a widow. She married an American millionaire who died soon after they were wed. Lord Alfred Curtis is a willowy young man. One of the lilies of the field.”
“The whole lot of them are lilies of the field,” grumbled Kerridge. “A hard day’s work would kill ’em.”
“Now, now, Mr. Kerridge. You have before you three representatives of the working class and we are very much alive.”
“Sorry. I’ll follow this up, Lady Rose. We shall ask all three why they paid him that particular sum of money.”
“You know,” said Harry, “I bet all three say that Freddy was on his uppers and asked for that specific amount to clear his debts. If you like, I can start asking a few questions.”
“And I,” said Rose eagerly.
They were interrupted by the arrival of the tea-tray. Harry watched as Rose and Daisy enthusiastically munched their way through cakes and biscuits. “You are hungry,” he said.
“We ate very well last night,” said Rose, “but today we have had neither breakfast nor lunch because of the difficulty in getting to work through the snow and then in getting here. As I was saying, I can help further with the investigation.”
Harry suddenly saw a way of restoring Rose to her parents. “You cannot do anything while you work at the bank—anything further, I mean. But were you to go back to your rightful position, you would be able to move freely in society again.”
“Good idea,” put in Daisy fervently, thinking of a blissful end to days of typewriting and evenings of cheap food.
“Yes, I suppose that would be a good idea,” said Rose, struck by a sudden vision of long hot baths and clean clothes.
“You have no objection, Mr. Kerridge?”
“No, I shall be glad of any help. But do remember, Lady Rose, someone murdered Freddy Pomfret and will be prepared, no doubt, to murder again.”
“Then, Daisy, we will return to Eaton Square and tell the servants to collect our belongings, and Captain Cathcart can inform the bank that we will not be returning there.”
“I will certainly inform the bank on your behalf,” said Harry, “but to send an earl’s liveried servants to the hostel in Bloomsbury would occasion unwelcome comment. In the role as your brother, I will go back with you and find some form of transport to take you and your goods home.”
“What about your car?”
“Possible. They were spreading salt on the roads when I walked here. If I may use your telephone, I will ask Becket.”
Becket said that he thought he would be able to drive to Scotland Yard.
Harry could not help noticing that a sparkle had returned to Rose’s blue eyes and corr
ectly guessed that she was thrilled to have a suitable excuse to leave her working life and sordid hostel.
At the hostel, Miss Harringey began to complain that there would be no refund on the advance rent. Rose was about to declare haughtily that she could keep the money, but Harry sent her upstairs with Daisy to pack and then began to haggle. He did not want Miss Harringey to wonder too much about working women who could so easily forgo a refund.
At last he had to admit that he was defeated. Miss Harringey pointed out that she had no immediate hope of finding a new tenant for the room and therefore would be losing money.
Satisfied with her victory, she treated the captain to a glass of very inferior sherry.
Rose had wanted to leave all their clothes behind, but Daisy counselled her that such profligate behaviour would cause talk.
The carried their suitcases downstairs and Becket went up to collect the travelling trunk.
Outside, the sun had begun to shine and the snow was beginning to melt from the roofs.
Harry’s car, with Becket at the wheel, conveyed them through the slippery melting roads to Eaton Square.
The hall-boy had seen them arrive and shouted the news. Two liveried footmen came down the front steps to carry in the luggage.
Then Brum, the butler, greeted them and said, “I will inform my lord and my lady of your arrival.”
Rose had hoped to escape to her rooms, have a hot bath and a hair-wash and a change of clothes before either of her parents saw her, but as she and Daisy mounted the stairs, Rose’s mother, Lady Polly, came out of the sitting-room on the first landing.
“Rose!” she exclaimed. “Come in here immediately.”
The earl was asleep in front of the fire, a newspaper over his face.
“Wake up!” shouted Lady Polly. “Rose is home!”
“Eh, what? By Jove, girl, you do look a mess. Sit down.”
Rose sank into a chair. Daisy remained standing, very much aware that she was a servant once again.
“What have you to say for yourself?” demanded Lady Polly.
“I am very grateful to you both for having allowed me to conduct the experiment of being a working woman,” said Rose. “I feel I am now ready to return to society.”
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