The Ebenezer Papers

by Dawn Harris

  Emily was wearing a headscarf, which half covered her face. She removed that and her coat, and when she turned back to us, we all gasped. Her face and arms were badly bruised, and her right eye was half closed. ‘I had to come,’ Emily said, fighting back the tears, as we all stared in horror at her injuries. ‘I can’t be in the show but I can help with it.’

  'What happened?’ Jean whispered, barely able to speak.

  'Blackshirts.’ She spat out the word with loathing, speaking as best she could with a split lip. ‘When I got home last night they jumped out on me.’ No-one spoke; we were all too stunned. 'Five of them brandishing clubs. Father rushed out to help me and they beat him too. Someone telephoned the police, but the thugs ran off before they arrived.’ Looking round at us all, her voice broke on a sob. ‘I’m sorry to let you down.’

  Jean instantly put her arms round Emily. 'Don't be silly. It’s not your fault. But why did they pick on you?’

  Monica muttered angrily, 'Because she’s Jewish, of course. My God, if I could get my hands on those cowards....’

  Emily’s religion was obviously a surprise to Jean, and the colour drained from her face. Then, gently touching one of the bruises on Emily’s arm, she murmured, 'How could anyone do such a thing?’

  'They were waiting for me, Mrs. Carmichael.’

  ‘Waiting for you?’

  'One of them said, that’s the girl we want. And when they left us lying on the ground, one laughed and said, she won’t be doing any modelling tomorrow. Now they know where I live, they’ll be back. I’ll never be a model.’

  As Emily choked back another sob, Monica pronounced fervently, 'Oh yes you will. No mindless thug is going to tell me who I can have for a model and who I can’t.’

  ‘Monica’s right,’ Jean said, the tremor in her voice showing how badly shaken she was.

  I asked Emily, ‘Would you recognise any of them?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It was too dark.’

  Emily wanted to stay to help, but Monica insisted she went home to rest. ‘Besides, the police might want to ask you more questions.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Emily said, and was eventually persuaded to go.

  I was about to offer her a lift when Jean announced, ‘I’ll take you, Emily. Did you come on your own?’

  'No, my father brought me. He’s waiting outside.’

  Jean hesitated slightly, but fortunately Emily didn’t notice. Jean squared her shoulders, resolutely put aside all her ingrained prejudices and followed Emily out of the door. Monica and I raised our eyebrows at each other, but said nothing as one of the other girls walked in then wanting to know what was going on. Once Monica had explained it all, I asked her, ‘Will you get one of the other models to wear Emily’s gowns?’

  She shook her head firmly. 'No, that won’t work. I need someone to take her place, or there won’t be enough girls to do the show.’

  'Can you get anyone at such short notice?’

  A fleeting smile crossed her lips. 'Probably not. Actually, you’re about her build.’

  ‘Wh-a-a-at? But I’m not a model.’

  'Your figure is very similar to Emily’s. And you’re the same height too.’

  'That doesn’t mean the dresses will fit. And, even if they do, I don’t have her ability to show them off.’

  'The others will teach you.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘We’ve got six hours. Let’s see if the gowns fit first.’ Taking my arm she steered me in the direction she wanted me to go, and collected the blue evening dress I had admired. 'This could have been made for you, and..........’

  I stopped her and said, ‘I wish I could do this for you Monica, but I can’t. I wouldn’t be any good.’

  ‘Liddy, I’m not asking you to do it for me,’ she said quietly. ‘I want you to do it for Peter.’

  I hadn’t expected the blue gown to fit, but it only needed two tiny adjustments, and when I looked in the full length mirror, I saw Monica was right. It suited me perfectly; so perfectly, I told her I would be her first customer.

  The rest of the morning I tried to learn the art of modelling, but unlike Emily, I was not a natural. I followed the instructions to the letter; all, I regret to say, without flair. In fact I strutted up and down the catwalk so many times I became rather light-headed and pictured myself tripping over some invisible obstacle and turning it into a somersault, like Charlie Chaplin would. And I had to hurriedly stifle a giggle.

  When Jean returned, some time later, she applauded the idea of my taking Emily’s place, but couldn’t get the Blackshirts out of her mind. ‘Emily’s father is a jeweller, Liddy, and he’s a decent man. The things he said---’ She stopped and shook her head, as if unable to believe what she was about to say. ‘He’s had his windows smashed twice, and his wife has been threatened so often she’s terrified of going out on her own. He won’t let Emily come to work alone either, so I’ll bring her in and take her home at night.’

  I stared at her. 'But you can’t do that every day, surely?’

  ‘Why not?’ she retorted. ‘Monica asked me if I’d like to carry on working here once the show is over. And I’m going to. I really love it.’

  I looked at her in surprise; she’d never shown the slightest interest in working before, and I asked, 'Won't Arthur mind?’

  'No. He said if it was what I wanted that was fine by him. But I’ll still go to the PDSA on Tuesdays.’ Was that because she loved animals? Or to ensure she paid the blackmailers?

  When the Fashion Show started, I took several deep breaths, reminding myself of the enormous courage and determination Monica had shown in getting Peter’s last designs before the public. His creations were truly stunning, and the room at the Dorchester was full. Peter had been so much admired that everyone who mattered in society was there, including the Duchess of York. And, at the last minute, Mrs. Simpson appeared. Which instantly silenced the hubbub of voices for a few seconds.

  Looking round at them all, I saw many friends and acquaintances, which made me so nervous that, when I approached the catwalk for the first time, wearing that beautiful blue evening gown, I stumbled, just as I’d feared I would. I felt such a fool but, thankfully, I recovered quickly and prayed no journalist or press photographer had noticed.

  Then Johnny strolled in. He stopped and smiled at me, and my heart leapt. And somehow I knew everything would be all right. It always was when Johnny was with me. Smiling back at him I threw myself into my part with all the panache I could muster. The audience gasped in admiration at the dress, the first of many such moments during the show. As Monica had said, this was the best collection Peter had ever done. The whole event was a triumph, and afterwards Monica was over the moon. 'You were wonderful, Liddy. Wonderful.’

  It was seeing Johnny so unexpectedly that made me lose all my self-consciousness, but I couldn’t tell her that. Or that the sight of him had filled my heart with joy. Luckily I didn’t need to answer her as Johnny chose that moment to congratulate her. He squeezed her hand, murmured something into her ear that I couldn’t hear, and then he kissed her. I turned away to stop myself crying out in protest. It was too soon, much too soon; didn’t he realise that? Monica needed time to recover. Why was he rushing things like this?

  I told myself I was only thinking of what was best for Monica, but the real reason kept getting in the way. I tried hard to suppress it, but it was no good. It just kept hammering away at me in the back of my mind. The truth was, I didn’t want him to kiss Monica. I wanted him to kiss me.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The celebration at the Cafe de Paris was great fun. I loved the atmosphere there, and as usual, the dance band was top class. I danced once with Johnny, and when he took me in his arms for the quickstep a quiver of delight ran through me, filling me with an aching longing. After that one dance he devoted himself to Monica, and I was consumed by jealousy. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, and I told myself to snap out of it, but it wasn’t that easy.

  The revelation of wha
t Johnny really meant to me kept me awake half the night. I hadn’t been in love with him when he left for America, and I really didn’t know how, or when, that had changed. Only that it had.

  But it was too late. Johnny was in love with Monica, and perhaps had been for a long time, and if she was beginning to return those feelings, they would marry in time. Johnny always found a way to get what he really wanted, although he’d never deliberately hurt anyone else in the process. The trouble was, he didn’t know he was hurting me, did he.

  To him I was the same good friend I had always been, and I couldn’t change that. I reminded myself that I’d sworn not to marry until Tim was grown up. But if there was one man I could trust, it was Johnny. He had never let me down, and never would.

  Watching him pursue Monica had made me realise my true feelings. And they were very different to the way I’d felt about Archie, even in the beginning. This was much, much deeper. But Monica deserved to be happy too. What’s more she would be, if Johnny loved her. And if he loved her, then he didn’t love me.

  Peter’s final collection was a huge success, and Monica was inundated with orders. The press made the most of it, praising Peter, and condemning the attack on Emily. The BUF quickly denied any knowledge of that, insisting the attackers were not part of their organisation. It didn’t surprise me; I expected them to try to squirm out of it.

  Too much was made of my stepping in at the last minute. It was even suggested I had a future as a model, and several newspapers printed a most flattering photograph of me in that magnificent blue evening gown as proof. What would they have said, I mused, smiling to myself, if they’d seen me almost fall flat on my face, as I nearly had when I was approaching the catwalk. Besides, the gown was the star of the show, not me.

  I’d barely seen Tim for the last two days, and I’d missed him so much I spent the whole of Wednesday with him. I planned to visit Inspector Nabber again that evening, and having put Tim to bed I went to tell Connie I was going out for a couple of hours. But as I walked into the hall I saw Lang throw a punch at Al. He was six inches shorter than Al, and of a slimmer build, but that didn’t stop him. My chauffeur, instead of retaliating, tried to reason with him. But Lang was having none of it, and as he rushed towards Al again fists flying, I demanded in a loud commanding voice, 'What the devil is going on here?’

  My butler, virtually bouncing up and down in fury, failed to curb his tongue and burst out, ‘I’m teaching this nigger a lesson.’

  Anger shot through me in a raging torrent. 'I will not have that word spoken in my house. You will apologise at once.’

  He swallowed hard, made a superhuman effort to regain his normal composure, and straightened his slim shoulders. ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs. York.’

  ‘Not to me,’ I retorted in exasperation. ‘To Al.’

  ‘Al?’ His eyes blazed with fire, his tone clearly stating such an action was utterly beneath him. Al's pursuit of Connie had ruined any chance of overcoming Lang's initial disapproval.

  'Well?’ I demanded, raising my brows at him. And he, recognising what the alternative was, forced out the required words between clenched teeth.

  Sending Al back to his flat, I told Lang to come into my study. I sat at my desk and he stood on the opposite side, ramrod straight, expecting the worst. 'Oh for heaven’s sake Lang, loosen up.’ Not the best choice of words, this being part of Al's vocabulary, yet strangely it did the trick, and he relaxed a little. 'Now look, you are an excellent butler and I don’t want to lose you, but I will not tolerate fighting or the use of demeaning words. Is that clear?’

  'Yes, Mrs. York.’

  ‘Good. Now tell me what brought this on.’

  ‘I – I caught him--- kissing Connie.’ And his lips twisted in disgust.

  'Did she object?’ He stared at me as if I hadn’t understood the implication of what he’d said. 'Well, did she?’

  'He's a negro, Mrs. York,’ he burst out, convinced that explained everything. ‘Connie's much too good for him. How she can bear to...’

  ‘Isn’t that for her to decide?’

  He struggled with his innermost feelings before voicing his worst fear, 'But what if she married him?’

  'Then I’d arrange their accommodation accordingly.’ He was clearly scandalised and I went on, ‘Al is a good man, and if you gave him half a chance you’d see that for yourself.’ I leant back in my chair. 'Don't you realise Lang, you’re adopting the same attitude as Oswald Mosley and his thugs?’

  ‘Begging your pardon, Mrs. York, but I happen to think he’s right.’

  'I see,’ I said with a sigh. He wasn’t the only one, but thankfully he was in the minority in Britain. In all other respects Lang was a pleasant man, thus I got to my feet and stood with my back to him, looking out of the window, trying to decide how best to deal with him. Thinking of what had happened to Emily, I turned back to face him and said quietly, ‘A group of Blackshirts attacked one of Miss Taverner’s models with clubs on the night before the fashion show. They did it to stop her taking part, but she came to work all the same, despite being covered in a mass of bruises, having one eye closed, and a lip split so badly she could hardly speak. Do you think that’s right too?’

  He didn’t answer but his face paled. Well, I thought, that’s given him something to think about. I doubted it would solve the problem with Al, but he might see sense, if he could overcome his jealousy. I didn’t say anything to Connie about the fight, believing that was best left to Al. But it stayed on my mind as I drove to the hospital in Willesden.

  When I arrived Inspector Nabber was talking to a cheerful bald-headed older man, who was introduced to me as Bob Stokes. ‘I’m just leaving,’ he said, with a friendly smile, insisting I take the chair provided. ‘Morgan and I are old friends. I was his boss once, but I’m retired now.’

  After Bob Stokes had gone, Inspector Nabber beamed at me. ‘I’m being discharged tomorrow, and my wife went home this morning, but she has to take it easy for a few days.’

  'Is there anything I can do? Drop off some groceries perhaps?’

  'That’s most kind, but our neighbours already have that organised.’ And he went on, ‘Now, Mrs. York, I have thought a great deal about the information you gave me on Monday, and I agree it needs investigation. It may no longer be my case but I still feel responsible. I have never sent an innocent man to the gallows, and I don’t intend to start now.’

  Impulsively I burst out, 'So you do think Mr. Taverner is innocent?’

  ‘I believe there is room for doubt. But first I have a few questions. This woman in Hyde Park, describe her for me please.’

  I’d dreaded this question, but I answered easily enough. ‘I only saw her from the back.’ This was true.

  ‘You must have noticed her height and build.’

  I thought for a moment, as if trying to recollect the woman I’d seen. Jean was highly fashionable, young and smart, like many other women in London, so I could be perfectly accurate. 'Well --- she was about five foot tall, with a good figure.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Bit difficult to tell. Probably under thirty.’

  ‘Hair?’

  ‘Dark,’ I said slowly. 'And worn short.’

  ‘Right. Now you said the other day that she’d left a letter on the park bench, and almost immediately Ginger picked it up.’

  ‘Yes.’ And I told him what I hadn’t had time to do on my last visit. ‘I didn’t recognise him at first because he wore spectacles and had a moustache. But when he removed his disguise as he left the park, I realised it was Ginger. The man I’d seen driving the blue Lagonda. I followed him to the Corner House at Marble Arch, and after he’d eaten he went to the car park and drove off in the Lagonda. I couldn’t follow – my car wasn’t parked nearby.’

  ‘Just as well. You should leave that sort of thing to the police,’ he advised.

  I inclined my head, aware he was right, and began talking about the letter. ‘You see, at first I thought he’d taken it hoping it
contained something of value. Only later did it strike me that he hadn’t looked to see what was inside. Which suggested he already knew.’

  ‘And what do you think that was?’

  ‘Blackmail money, of course.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Well, the Greenes must be criminals. Why else would they move out of their luxury apartment that quickly? According to their charlady they’d been there for six years. She said the father had the brains and the son was the dogsbody.’ And I surmised, ‘So if Ginger always collected the money, he had to be got out of prison.’

  'The father could have collected it.’

  ‘Unlikely, I think. He has a bad back. A war wound, the charlady said. He uses a walking stick when he goes out. So he couldn’t make a run for it if the police appeared.’

  ‘Well, if you’re right, and they killed three men to keep their racket going, this woman must be extremely wealthy. ’

  'That’s what I thought. Unless you can see any other explanation?’

  ‘Not immediately. But if it is blackmail, payments are likely to be regular. I wonder what they’ve got on her?’

  Without thinking I suggested, ‘Perhaps she’s having an affair.’

  ‘Mmm. Could be. If she’s married. Did you see a ring on her finger?’

  I tried to retrieve the situation. 'No, I was too far away. Only I was thinking about it last night, and couldn’t see any other reason.’

  He gave a grim smile. 'Can't you. Then let me help. If she’s married it could be an affair in the past, or an illegitimate child before marriage, or even a lady friend who she has been – let us say – too friendly with. You’d be surprised what people try to keep hidden. I loathe blackmailers. Scum of the earth, preying on people’s weaknesses.’

  'We must catch them, Inspector.’

  ’That may not be easy. I should warn you some new evidence has just come to light. Two days after Charlie Jones was fished out of the Thames, an anonymous caller rang Scotland Yard and gave them Jones’s address.’ His Welsh accent soared as he spoke, emphasising his scepticism. ‘Superintendent Burns rushed over there at once and guess what he found?’