‘Why would she be looking for him, Miss Flora?’
‘I get the impression he has wronged someone and Evangeline is willing to help put that right.’ What had this man Victor done? And why was Evangeline taking it upon herself to do something about it? Was this Victor the reason she was reluctant to marry Harry Flynn?
‘Seems a bit convoluted to me.’ Sally sniffed. ‘Are you sure you ain’t making something out of nothing?’
‘Are not, Sally,’ Flora corrected her without thinking, a finger pointed at the black framed advertisement. ‘It’s dated a week before Evangeline was killed.’
‘Do you think this bloke found out she was asking about him and strangled her for it?’
‘It’s possible, though maybe this Victor is in trouble, and Evangeline was killed to stop her warning him. What we don’t know is if she received any replies to this advertisement. It won’t be easy finding out either.’
She recalled the stone-faced assistant at Boltons Library and chewed her bottom lip as she pondered what to do next. The part about restitution of grievances had struck her as particularly ominous.
The sound of William’s voice in the hall as he greeted Randall brought Flora to her feet. She put the paper containing the advertisement to one side and gathered the others into an untidy pile.
‘I’ll keep him occupied while you return the rest of these papers to Dunne.’ She slid her chair back neatly beneath the table. ‘Go on, Sally.’ She flapped an impatient hand when Sally did not move.
‘I’m going.’ Sally gathered the pile into her arms. ‘Though I dunno what’s so secret about a load of old newspapers.’
‘He’s bound to ask what this is all about and, again, I want to explain things in my own time.’ She slid the remaining paper beneath one arm and emerged from the dining room in time to see William approaching the sitting room.
‘I do apologize for missing yet another meal, Flora,’ he said when she reached him. He gestured her to enter the room ahead of him, and followed her in, setting his briefcase down on a sofa. ‘Work, you know. Although I would have much preferred your company to Crabbe’s.’ He opened his briefcase and rifled through the contents, removing a thick yellow covered folder.
‘I quite understand. You’re busy doing important government work. Did you have a good luncheon?’
‘We had Simpsons’ Original Fish Dinner. I would have asked you to join us, but I’m afraid they don’t allow women in their dining room.’ He exchanged one folder for another as he talked. ‘Did you know, that they’ve served the same meal since 1757?’
‘I expect it must smell rather by now,’ Flora muttered under her breath.
‘I beg your pardon?’ William looked up from the folder which seemed to command all of his attention.
She shook her head, smiling at his obvious confusion. ‘William, there’s something I would like to—’
‘Actually, I’ve pretty much finished for the day.’ He consulted his half-hunter he took from a waistcoat pocket. ‘How about I take you out to tea? As a sort of apology for having neglected you lately?’
‘What, now?’
‘Yes, why not?’ He dropped the folder back into his briefcase, clicking the catches shut.
‘That-that sounds lovely, thank you.’ She fingered the paper in her hand, dismissing the speech she had prepared. Perhaps her revelation could wait.
‘Is that today’s newspaper? I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.’ He held out a hand.
‘Er, no. Randall has left today’s Times on your desk.’ Flora took a deep breath, tucked the paper further beneath her arm and made for the door. ‘I’ll get my coat and hat.’
When she entered the street on William’s arm, he made no attempt to hail a cab. Instead, he guided her to the left along the Knightsbridge Road.
‘Where are we going?’ Her breath formed a mist in front of her face, mingling with the fog as an early dusk descended on the city, infused with a sulphur yellow glow from the windows of the shops they passed.
‘You’ll see. It’s only a ten-minute walk.’
Flora hurried to keep pace with William’s long stride as they left the main thoroughfare of Knightsbridge, with its blare of traffic and discordant clop of horses, and turned into Hill Street.
‘It just on the right here.’ He drew her to a halt before a long building with a glass roof, the front façade decorated with stone dressings and ball finials. A sign on a parapet proclaimed it Prince’s Skating Rink. ‘This used to be a floorcloth factory, but was converted into a skating rink a few years ago.’
‘Are we going inside?’ Flora asked, hoping he wasn’t about to initiate her into the sport at that moment. ‘I’ve never been ice skating.’
‘Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to venture onto the ice on your first visit. I saw an ice hockey match here last month, a sport which is becoming quite the thing.’
‘I thought they played mostly in Canada? They get a lot more ice and snow than we do.’
‘That’s true, but it’s growing in popularity here. I blame the Rhodes Scholarship, which has brought many Canadians and Newfoundlanders here to study. They have even formed a team called the London Canadians to play against Cambridge University, right here at The Prince’s Sports Club.’ He gave her a gentle tug through the double doors of the main entrance. ‘The club also serves afternoon tea, which is why I brought you here. I thought you might like to watch the skaters.’ He drew her into a main arena beneath an iron and glass roof that rose into a vast arch similar to a station, thus proclaiming its former use as a factory. Tables and chairs were set on a raised platform on all sides of a railed skating rink. A waiter who stood sentry at the door led the way to an empty table set for two in a row beside the rink, while others balanced tea trays and eased expertly between the tables, delivering tea, cakes, and sandwiches to those who watched skaters whizz or stagger by on the ice.
‘Is it real ice?’ Flora asked, charmed by William’s thoughtful attempt to show her something new and interesting.
‘Real ice, artificially manufactured. Clever isn’t it?’ He took the chair opposite, his lips twitching into a smile.
Children scooted fearlessly on the other side of the fenced area, swerving between ladies in long skirts who wobbled and swayed, their faces set in expressions of fierce concentration. Couples danced, their arms round each other’s waists, moving with as much skill as if they were in a ballroom. The constant slice and whoosh of their feet as they glided over the ice echoed into the high roof.
‘What an amazing place. Who owns it?’ Flora stared round at the glass roof and the icing rink.
The waiter returned with a tray which he set down before them, complete with finger sandwiches and tiny iced cakes that made Flora’s mouth water. Sally was right, if the sudden, overpowering need for food was one of them, she was indeed having symptoms.
‘Actually, that’s an interesting story.’ William dismissed the waiter and poured for them both. ‘When the old flooring factory was put up for sale, Mary Russell, the Duchess of Bedford, bought it and turned it into this skating rink. She’s a keen skater, and here’s a coincidence for you, she went to Cheltenham Ladies College.’ He held out a plate of sandwiches towards her.
‘I wasn’t educated there.’ Flora took a smoked salmon one. ‘You’re confusing me with your nieces. I was the home-schooled governess, remember.’
‘Oh, yes of course. How silly of me.’ He frowned and smiled at the same time. ‘I always think of you four girls as a unit and I forget – well never mind. Now the interesting part is that the Duchess has vehemently refused to pay the required business taxes due on the club.’
‘Vehemently?’ Flora frowned at him over the rim of her cup and waited for him to go on.
‘Indeed. As a protest against the way, women are treated by the government. She is not permitted to have a vote and yet is expected to pay tax on this place as a business. She wrote to the government suggesting they send their tax demand to the Duk
e, her husband.’
‘Now that is the sort of active protest women should make, especially those with influence.’ Flora beamed. ‘What better way of concentrating the government’s minds than depriving them of their precious taxes.’
‘I thought you would approve,’ William said, laughing. ‘Her Grace’s protest has caused quite a stir, especially as she’s determined to hold out against them and create as much adverse publicity for the government as she can.’
‘You speak as if you know her well.’
‘We’ve met on several occasions,’ he said carefully. ‘She’s quite a daredevil. Runs about in motor cars, shoots like a marksman and rides like a hoyden. I’m afraid she’ll break her neck taking a fence or I’ll read in the newspaper she’s gone off on an adventure and disappeared.’
‘Or maybe she’ll simply die the way she lived, doing exactly what she loved.’
‘That’s an interesting philosophy.’ William’s eyes settled on her face as if he were looking at her properly for the first time. ‘Now, tell me what’s so fascinating in that newspaper you’ve been clutching in your hand all the way here?’ He nodded to the offending item that sat neatly folded beside Flora’s plate.
‘I was waiting for the right moment to show it to you.’ She slowly lowered her cup, reached for the paper and opened it at the appropriate page. ‘Miss Evangeline Lange rented a mailbox at Boltons Library.’
‘The woman who was found in Old Barrack Yard?’ At Flora’s nod, William frowned. ‘Do I wish to know how you discovered this?’
‘Most probably not.’ She cleared her throat. ‘The important thing is she put an advertisement in this paper soliciting replies to that box number.’
William returned his own cup to his saucer and sat back. ‘Flora, why have you been digging into this woman’s murder? You didn’t even know her.’
‘I’m aware of that. And please don’t look at me like I’m a naughty schoolgirl, I’ve been discreet.’ Discreet in mentioning neither John Lange, her visit to The Grenadier nor Harry Flynn. ‘At first, I thought Evangeline had done so to keep her suffragist correspondence separate from her family.’
‘Sounds reasonable.’ William made no move to pick up the paper, instead, he spread strawberry jam on half a scone with a knife. ‘It’s not remarkable for bored heiresses to join the suffragists to fill in their time between society lunches.’
‘Well take a look at this.’ She was about to push the paper towards him but halted at what he had just said. ‘William? How did you know Evangeline Lange was an heiress? It wasn’t in the newspaper report of her murder.’
He hesitated for a heartbeat before answering. ‘I must have read it a news report somewhere. Her father is quite an important man, so word gets around. Go on then, let me have a look.’ He took the paper from her in his free hand, the full teacup held aloft in the other. ‘Is it this black outlined one just here?’ At her nod, he took a sip of tea as he read. His air of bored disinterest changed to shock and he lowered his cup rapidly, spilling tea on the pristine cloth. ‘Good grief, what was the woman up to?’ His face had suffused with red and his eyes flashed with anger. He crumpled the page in his hands and gave the room a swift piercing look. ‘Well, this has made the entire affair more complicated.’
‘What affair?’ Flora popped the remains of an iced fancy in her mouth and chewed. ‘The murder, or afternoon tea at a skating rink?’
‘This isn’t a game, Flora.’ William’s warning tone made her sit up straighter. He refolded the paper and left it on the table.
‘What isn’t? I don’t understand, why are you so angry?’ Only the fact his ire wasn’t directed at her gave her the courage to question him.
He scraped back his chair and stood. ‘I cannot explain right now, that is, not unless you’re prepared to sign the Official Secrets Act.’
‘What? And where are you going?’ Flora paused in the act of reaching for another cake.
‘The office. You stay here and finish your tea.’ He pushed the chair back beneath the table. ‘Watch the skaters for a while. I’ll ask the manager to order a cab to take you home.’
‘But what about your tea?’
‘I’m sorry, Flora, it’s unavoidable, but I have to go.’ He tossed a pound note onto the table, replaced his hat on his head, and left.
‘William!’ Stunned, Flora watched him stride toward the exit, her mouth open.
What was going on?
The waiter eased to her side, head bowed and his hands clasped in front of him. ‘Would you like anything else, Miss?’
‘Nothing more, thank you. Oh yes there is. Could you order me a taxi in about fifteen minutes?’ She plucked the pink iced cake from the plate with one hand, the note with the other. ‘I have somewhere to go to. But I’m going to finish my tea first.’
Chapter 20
Flora alighted from the taxi outside Prince Albert Mansions. Having asked the driver to wait, she rushed inside the apartment and went in search of Sally, whom she ushered back out again before the girl could fasten her coat.
‘Where are we going, Miss Flora?’ Sally struggled with the flying end of her scarf as she was bundled unceremoniously into the taxi, her hat askew.
‘I’ll tell you in a minute. Now get in.’ Flora climbed in beside her and rapped on the glass partition. ‘Connaught Square, please driver, as quick as you can.’
‘What’s in Connaught Square?’ Sally adjusted her hat, though it remained lopsided.
‘We’re going to make a call on the Lange residence. I want to speak to John about this Victor character. I’ve brought Evangeline’s bag with me as I feel guilty at not having turned it over to the police. I should have done so already now we know what the Boltons Library receipt was for. I only hope Inspector Maddox won’t be angry with me for withholding evidence.’ She reached for the grab handle as their enthusiastic driver took a sharp turn round Hyde Park Corner and into Park Lane.
‘How did you know where the Lange’s live?’ Sally righted herself on the seat.
‘I looked them up in William’s copy of Who's Who he keeps in his study. I assume Mr Lange lives at home, but if not, I can always enquire after him there.’ She wiped condensation from the window with her gloved hand and peered outside, but it was already dark and the fog obscured everything the night did not.
The driver must have taken her plea for urgency to heart, for in a shorter time than Flora imagined possible, they rolled to a gentle halt before a short flight of steps that led to a black painted front door, only the top half visible from an overhead light.
Flora alighted onto the mist-shrouded pavement and climbed the steps up to a stone portico supported by two white pillars.
‘That was a scary ride.’ Sally stared after the motor taxi as it chuntered away.
‘It was indeed.’ Flora narrowed her eyes at the departing taxi. ‘Perhaps we’ll stick to a hansom on the return journey.’ She gestured the bell pull on Sally’s side of the door. ‘Now, ring the bell for me, would you?’
‘Are you sure Mr William would approve of this?’ Sally moved to obey. ‘He won’t like you going about questioning strangers about the murder.’
‘When Mr William stops keeping so many secrets, I might take his concerns into consideration. Anyway, this is a condolence visit and nothing to do with any investigation.’ No one had come to the door so Flora leaned across Sally and gave the bell pull a sharp tug.
Finally, the door was unhurriedly eased open by an emaciated butler with a thin layer of grey hair combed over his bald pate.
‘Is the master expecting you?’ he asked when Flora had stated her business.
‘I expect so, I did mention I would call,’ Flora lied. ‘Though if Mr Lange is otherwise engaged, I could return at another time. Perhaps you would enquire of your employer as to when would be convenient?’
‘Mr John Lange is not at home, Miss. However Mrs Lange is here, but I doubt she will receive visitors.’ He indicated the black ribbon tied to the bell pull.
‘This is a house of mourning.’
‘Which is precisely why I have come.’ Flora returned his look steadily.
He raised his thick, scruffy eyebrows, gave a resigned sigh and stepped aside, allowing them entry into a black and white tiled hall. ‘If you’ll wait here a moment, Miss.’ He gave an acquiescent nod, before disappearing into a room off to one side.
‘You’re getting better at this, Missus,’ Sally whispered.
‘Being a detective do you mean?’ Flora tugged off her gloves while gazing around the sumptuously appointed hall.
‘No. Lying.’
Flora opened her mouth to protest, but just then the butler reappeared.
He tilted forward onto his toes with his hands behind his back. ‘Mrs Lange asks if you would join her in the sitting room.’
‘Thank you.’ She took a step towards the room he indicated, then turned back at the last second. ‘Oh, would you mind directing my maid to the kitchens? She can wait for me there.’
‘The kitchens?’ Sally muttered. ‘Couldn’t I wait on this posh velvet seat here just as well? More comfortable anyway.’
‘I have my reasons,’ Flora whispered through the corner of her mouth. ‘I want you to discover what you can from the staff. Be friendly but polite. Can you do that?’
Sally’s eyes gleamed with new-found enthusiasm. ‘Ah, well that's more like it. I’ll see what I can do.’
The butler sniffed, cocked his chin at Sally and muttered, ‘The kitchen is that way. Turn left at the end of the corridor.’
Sally threw a conspiratorial look over her shoulder before disappearing into the inner recesses of the house, whose burgundy and navy wallpaper and dark paint resembled a cave.
The butler showed Flora into a sitting room, where a woman who looked to be in her forties rose unsteadily from her chair, her fair hair bundled into a pile of untidy curls on her head. In a plain black gown that did not suit her pale colouring, the lady’s large eyes were overly bright, the pupils dilated, obscuring their colour. The decorations were sombre, a combination of purple and black, the curtains partly drawn and a black cloth was draped over the mirror above the fireplace in keeping with a house of mourning.
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