He waved his hand, indicating that they should roll down the window.
‘Florence,’ Dody ordered, ‘get to the front of the car. If he seems in any way threatening, lean out of the window and scream for as long as you can.’
‘Right you are.’
Dody rolled the window down about two inches, icy air stabbing at her cheek.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am,’ the young man said. ‘But there’s a fella at the Anchor and Whistle, Old John Shoesmith, just ’ad an accident — knocked down by a cart ’e was. We carried him inside the pub and tried to ’elp, but he’s still screaming and hollering, says his leg’s broke. I thought seeing as you was a doctor an’ all you might ’elp.’
‘How did you know I was a doctor?’ Dody said, tight-mouthed.
‘Mr James told us so when ’e called back in to the pub from dropping off the furniture. Also said you ’ad a fancy car like this one.’
‘And where’s Mr James now?’
‘He told me to go fetch Dr Court who lives about ten minutes from ’ere and then he went off home. I saw your motorcar and figured it must be you. You’re a lot closer than Doc Court and will save me some of a wet walk.’
Dody swallowed, hesitating. Was this a trick?
‘Dody, no.’ Florence called from the front seat when Dody moved to open the door.
‘Poor old John — that’s the chap with the broke leg — might not last I don’t reckon. The bone’s sticking out and e’s gushing like a fountain.’ The boy held up a hand. It was black and shiny under the street lamp.
Dody thought it sounded as if an artery had been nicked or severed. If it was the latter, the man was sure to be dead already. But if it was the former, then a simple application of pressure to the wound might save him. There were so many unfortunates she could not help, but this man would at least have a chance if she got to him soon enough.
‘All right, I’ll come.’
Florence spoke urgently ‘For goodness sake, don’t go. Let him find the local doctor.’
‘There won’t be time. I know what I’m doing.’
‘Then let me come too.’
‘No, you must wait here for Fletcher,’ Dody said, opening the back passenger door and stepping into the rain. ‘When he returns you can both meet me at the Anchor and Whistle.’
‘Thank you, ma’am, that’s much appreciated. Follow me, I know a short cut,’ the young man said.
Dody picked up her skirts, but made no move to follow. He must think her a fool. ‘I’m not going down that alleyway with you. We’ll stick to the well-lit street and I will follow you. Lead on.’
‘Right you are, Doc.’ He took off down the street, running fast in the direction of the public house.
Dody did her best to keep up, but the rain was making her skirt heavier by the second. She lost him behind a shopfront that was undergoing repairs, and stepped onto the road to avoid a pile of brick rubble.
Something with the power of a freight train hit her in the midriff. Her breath left her with a whoosh. For a moment she thought a motorcar had swerved off the road and clipped her. She crashed back onto the rubble, feeling every brick stamp its mark on her back. To breathe, let alone scream, was impossible.
Mr James stood over her as she lay splayed and winded against the brick heap. He pressed a hobnail boot to her chest, further hampering her desperate efforts to draw breath.
‘What do you want with Peggy?’ he growled as he looked down at her.
Dody struggled to lift her head. She tried to spot the young vagabond. Under a distant street lamp, she saw a figure running in the direction from which she had come. Running off to find help? Don’t be an idiot, of course not. He had led her into this trap. Dody screwed her eyes shut and tried to think. The pressure between her breasts increased. Any minute now she expected to hear the snap of her sternum.
Then the weight on her chest lifted somewhat. Perhaps he sensed he was losing her.
‘Go on, tell me,’ he demanded.
She managed to whoop in a breath. ‘Why do you want to know?’ she whispered. Against her hip, she felt the protrusion of her small handbag. She moved as if to massage her hip and attempted to force her fingers between the bag’s lips.
But he was quicker. With the flick of a catch, a blade sprang to life in his hand. He took his foot off her chest and leaned in close enough for her to smell the liquorice on his breath, see the dull shine of the streetlamp on the flick-knife.
‘My guvnor and me, we don’t like nosey strangers.’
‘I’m a doctor. I . . .’ Dody racked her aching brains. ‘I needed to take the stitches out of Margaret’s neck.’
‘You’ll be needing stitches yourself if you don’t tell me the truth, and that’s a fact.’ He put the tip of the knife to her cheek. She felt the prick against her skin. A touch more pressure and her skin would split. ‘Why did you go to all that trouble to find Peggy? What do you know about her?’
‘The stitches. It’s the truth, I swear it.’
Her fingers closed around a lump of brick. She swung it towards his face and he dodged, pulling the knife away. She rolled to her side, attempted again to open her bag’s clasp and failed.
He lunged with his knife. A sliver of chill whipped across her cheek. The blade passed but a hair’s width from her skin. He laughed.
She found her breath and with a piercing scream she lashed out with her bag.
Caught by surprise, he stumbled and cursed as the knife fell from his grasp into the shadows.
With renewed hope she twisted the bag’s clasp and reached for the scalpel’s handle.
And then came a shout from down the street, the sound of running feet.
‘Help, help!’ she called. ‘Over here!’
James got to his feet and charged at her. Too late he saw the scalpel clutched in her hand and could not stop his momentum. He dodged in time to avoid a major injury but she still caught him across his arm, slicing through the fabric of his donkey jacket and the skin and muscle beneath.
He turned on her rescuers, bent at the knees, ready for a fight. Fletcher appeared, drawing himself up to his full six foot two inches. Behind him stood Florence, armed with the umbrella, and the vagabond. The boy was punching the air like a prize fighter. ‘Go on, whack ’im, whack ’im!’
James clutched his arm and swore. Then he turned and ran towards the Anchor and Whistle.
‘Lily-livered coward!’ Florence screamed after him. ‘It’s different when you have to fight with a man, isn’t it?’
The only answer was the sound of hobnail boots disappearing into the darkness.
Dody dropped the scalpel and sank back onto the pile of rubble. She leaned over and held her head in her hands, her heart galloping like one hundred hoofbeats.
‘Are you all right?’ Florence asked, gripping Dody’s arm. ‘Fletcher, you might need to carry her to the taxi.’
Dody shrugged off Fletcher’s willing hands and struggled to her feet. ‘I am quite all right, merely winded. Thank you, all three of you,’ she said, looking at the ragged young man. She had misjudged him.‘You arrived just in time. But now you must find help for old John . . .’
The young man looked sheepish. ‘Sorry ma’am, Mr James told me to say that. Old John Shoesmith’s fine, sitting in the cosy corner with a pint still, I ’spect.’
What a fool she had been. Again.
Florence reached into her purse. She pulled out some notes and pressed them into his cold hands and thanked him. ‘I suggest you use this to get as far away from the Anchor and Whistle as you can,’ she said.
‘But you had blood on your hands,’ Dody said, dazed and puzzled.
The boy shook his head. ‘Nah, just some oil from your motor.’
‘Why did you change your mind and decide to help me?’ Dody asked.
He shrugged. ‘You two was kind to me and ’e wasn’t. I can’t stand that Mr James.’
‘I hope he also paid you,’ Florence said.
The young man grinned. ‘Yes ma’am, ’e did an’ all. Cheerio then, I’m awf!’ And with a cheeky salute he was gone.
Dody leaned into her sister as they walked. The closer they got to the taxi, the more her body shook. By the time they reached it she had all but collapsed.
‘I’m sorry, Florence, I should have listened to you,’ she said between the chattering of her teeth.
Florence helped her into the back of the taxi and cradled her in her arms. ‘It’s all right. It was a clever trick. No doctor as dedicated as you could ignore such a plea.’
‘There are so many people I seem unable to help. I thought that this time . . .’
‘It’s all right, darling, hush.’
‘We must tell Pike about this.’
‘Of course we will. We will contact him as soon as we get home and he will see to it that that savage is arrested.’
The taxi dropped them outside the townhouse. Fletcher said he would organise the motor to be taken to the garage in the morning. Annie met them in the front hall and fussed around, taking their coats and hats and tutting over the sisters wet clothing and hair. Dody saw a note addressed to her on the hall table and recognised the neat writing in a heartbeat.
‘When did the Chief Inspector call, Annie?’ she asked the maid.
‘Just after lunch, miss.’
‘We’ll have supper in the morning room please, Annie,’ Florence said as Dody ripped open the envelope with trembling hands. ‘Tell Cook nothing too heavy — toast and soup if possible. Thank you, dear.’ Annie disappeared down the stairs to the kitchen. ‘So what does Pike have to say for himself?’ she asked.
Dody fought the urge to stamp her foot and cry. ‘He’s got to go away for a couple of days. Something to do with work,’ she said, balling the note in her hand in frustration.
‘He does? That’s sudden. He made no mention of it last night.’
‘I know,’ said Dody, sinking into the hall chair, every muscle in her back screaming in pain.
‘Does he say where he’s going?’
‘No.’ Never had she longed for Pike more than how she did at this moment.
‘Damn, damn, damn the man — never around when we need him. But we must report the crime to someone. No one is safe with that man James on the streets.’
‘Yes, Florence, but whom in the police can we trust?’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Margaret supervised the staff as they laid John Giblett’s mahogany dining table. Three extra leaves had been added, turning it from an eight-seater to a comfortable twenty-seater. Her chairs blended almost seamlessly with those John owned and she was confident no one would notice they weren’t a set. Her satisfied gaze travelled to the central table decoration that she had created herself. Gay little wooden birds dotted the arrangement, peeping through an artistic tangle of artificial fruit, paper flowers and candles. The meal would be candlelit, she’d decided; it was so much more atmospheric than artificial light. That said, when the hard negotiations began, when it was important to assess every nuance, from a punter’s eye twitch to how he held his hands, she would ensure that the electric lights were blazing.
The table’s patina shone like water; the starched linen napkins looked sharp enough to cut. The Royal Doulton plates, chosen by her, were of colourful rose design with hand-painted gold edging. They were a perfect match to the gold-plated cutlery (Margaret had pressed for the real thing, but John had put his foot down) and the sparkling lead crystal glassware imported from Ireland.
She frowned when she noticed the fish knives. ‘What are these doing here? We’re not having fish,’ she said to a hired footman.
The man shrugged. ‘Butler’s orders.’
‘He’s got it wrong. Replace them with game knives and forks, please.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
No argument there, which was a good sign. Earlier she’d been the target of some rather sultry looks from the footman. The men had not taken well to the Georgian livery and powdered wigs she’d insisted they wear. She’d responded by telling them that no other house in Mayfair could boast a dinner party of this opulence, that they should be proud of their part in the tableaux and stop their silly sulking.
Just as she was proud that John had enough confidence in her abilities to trust her with the task of the party’s smooth running. She took this to be a test of her competency and her suitability to be mistress of the house. This dinner party was almost as important to her as it was to John.
She looked at the placecards in her hands, which she had written herself, and mused over the seating plan. John would preside at one end of the table, closest to the fireplace. She would be at the other end, near the door, so she could keep an eye on the coming and going of the servants.
She knew most of the clients and their wives or mistresses, bar a couple from Ireland and, of course, ‘Pianner’ Charlie from America. Not all the men had female partners and it was a job to work out a suitable seating plan. And that bloody Malcolm James was coming too, despite John’s earlier assurances that he wouldn’t be, so there were even more men now. She rubbed her chin as she thought about the problem. Then, reminding herself that this was not so much a social occasion as a business meeting, she plonked Malcolm James on John’s left and Charlie on his right. It was Charlie, after all, whom John planned to seduce that night. Charlie was one of the few guests who realistically could afford to buy the necklace.
When none of the staff were watching, she picked up one of the crystal glasses in James’s place setting and spat into it. Then wiped the bubbling spittle out with a soft cloth.
Smiling to herself, she glanced at her wristwatch. It was twenty past five. The guests weren’t due until eight o’clock, which meant she had plenty of time to check on the kitchen preparations before bathing and dressing. John had told her what to wear and she had laid her gown out on the spare room bed. A maid had been appointed to assist her with her toilette, a procedure Margaret had always found amusing — she’d been dressing herself since she was old enough to walk, hadn’t she? Never mind. It was a small price to pay to become the Lady of the House and she supposed it was something she’d have to get used to.
What kind of ring would John get her, she wondered as she made her way down to the kitchen. She was partial to emeralds; they went so well with her hair and eyes. Yes, she decided, an emerald would do very nicely, provided it had sufficient depth of colour and shone enough . . .
The clattering and swearing stopped as soon as she entered the steamy kitchen. They’d hired extra staff for the evening, though only John’s trusted regulars were to wait at table or have anything to do with the guests. Most of the extras had been relegated to the kitchen to help Cook.
Cook was decorating a glazed salmon with slices of hard-boiled egg, aided by a sweaty scullery maid with bird’s nest hair.
‘A moment please, Mrs E.’ Margaret beckoned the cook to join her at the scullery entrance. The red-faced woman glowered at the interruption. They had almost come to blows while arranging the menu, with Margaret eventually coerced by John into giving in to most of the old cow’s wishes.
With her floury hands on her expansive hips, Cook listened as Margaret reminded her of the time each course was to be presented upstairs. Then Margaret nodded at the glazed fish. ‘And I thought we’d decided on stuffed quail, not salmon.’
‘Mr Giblett said we needed a fish course. He cancelled the quail.’
‘And I’m cancelling the fish.’
‘There’s always a fish course, ma’am.’
‘Then I will start a new fashion.’
The cook nodded in an offhand manner. ‘Is that all, ma’am?’ Sarcasm dripped like fat from a roast. None of Margaret’s girls would dare use that tone with her. As soon as she got that ring on her finger, that cook would go.
Upstairs in the hall she found a lace-adorned footman walking towards the cloakroom with a familiar coat in his arms. Her heart fell and her mood dropped another notch. ‘Is Mr James here alrea
dy?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ the footman replied. ‘He’s in the study with Mr Giblett. He asked not to be disturbed.’
‘Well, bollocks to that an’ all.’ Without knocking Margaret burst into the study. ‘John, what’s with cancelling the quail? Not everyone likes fish . . .’
The two sat very close, Mr James with his hand on John’s arm. She looked from one man’s startled-rabbit face to the other, at first not believing her eyes. It took a moment to register what it was she was seeing. When she did she found herself clenching her fists so tight her fingernails gouged into her palms.
This was the last straw. She stalked over to James. ‘How dare you bring that stuff in here,’ she said, snatching the syringe from James’s hand. She dashed it to the floor and stamped on it, feeling the glass splinter beneath her slippered foot. ‘So this is what that pig of a man has over you, John. I thought you were above all this.’
John ripped the tourniquet from his arm and raised his hands in supplication. ‘Steady on there, Pegs, this isn’t as bad as it looks. This is the first time, isn’t it, James? I just need something to get me through tonight.’
James scowled at the mess on the carpet. ‘That’ll be five pounds you owe me, Peggy.’
‘This was my first time, wasn’t it, James?’ John said again, desperate and pleading.
‘Yes, Mr Giblett. You said you felt you needed to try it, seeing as how you was about to start selling it.’
Margaret rolled her eyes.
‘It’s true, Pegs, I swear. I can’t sell goods I can’t vouch for myself,’ said John.
‘Opiates are hardly your area of expertise, John, you’re a jewellery man. The amount you lost on those rifles for the Irish was a good lesson learned, I thought. Stick to your knitting. And why bother about wanting more trade? Soon you’ll have more money than you can poke a stick at — or so you’re always saying.’
John affected a nonchalant shrug. ‘I suppose I just can’t help myself.’ He turned to James. ‘Leave us, please. I’ll see you when the guests start arriving.’
A Donation of Murder Page 18