The Red Rover Society

by Allison Osborne

  He immediately looked at Joe.

  “Good morning Mr...?”

  “Doctor Joe Watson,” Joe replied with a smile. “And–”

  “And I am Irene Holmes,” Irene gave him another once-over, noting his constant worried brow and chewed fingernails. “We are here to meet with Mrs. Beauchamp.”

  “Oh,” the man said. “May I ask what for?”

  “I am not at liberty to give that information out,” Irene said. “You may ask Mrs. Beauchamp if you wish.”

  “Of course.” The man straightened. “Thank you, miss. Head through the lobby and the lift will take you right to their floor. They are flat 5A.”

  Joe and Irene passed through the spacious lobby marvelling at the bits of marble and gold throughout the floor. A large wall of mirrors stretched down one side, and they both glanced at their reflections. They caught each other’s eyes, and Joe stuck his tongue out at her and she did the same back with a mischievous grin.

  As they approached the lift, the door opened, and the operator nodded to them.

  “I haven’t been on a lift in years,” Joe muttered to Irene.

  The box creaked as they stepped into it and the lift operator, an ageing man, pushed the lever forward. The lift rose quickly and beside Irene, Joe startled and clutched her wrist.

  The ride was relatively fast, and Irene didn’t entirely trust the old lines and springs keeping this box on the track. Her worries ended when the box slowed, and the bell dinged, signalling that they were on the fifth floor.

  “Have a lovely day,” the lift operator mumbled as they stepped out into the hallway. They were barely out of the box when another bell sounded, and the operator closed the door behind them, whisking away to another floor.

  “Four flats on each floor, by the looks of it,” Irene said as they headed left.

  “Even the hallway feels posh,” Joe said. “This carpet is barely worn.”

  They reached a rich mahogany door bearing the sign 5A, and Irene rapped on the wood.

  It opened almost immediately, and a young woman in a black and white housekeeping outfit greeted them.

  “Doctor Watson and Miss Holmes,” she began in a shy voice. “Please come in.”

  They stepped into a small foyer, and a low barking came from deeper inside the flat. A beautiful Irish Setter trotted around the corner, its long red fur shimmering in the light, tail wagging. He let out a ‘woof’ and sniffed their shoes. Joe immediately took to him, crouching down and giving the dog a good scratch behind his long floppy ears.

  The maid held her arms out. “I shall take your coats if you would like to move to the sitting area to the right.”

  Irene and Joe shrugged off their jackets and handed them to the maid, and she scampered off, presumably to put them in some closet or coatroom. Irene led Joe out of the foyer and turned right, toward the sitting area. Sturdy columns rose to the ceiling, and the marble floor clicked under Irene’s heels. The sitting area wasn’t far at all, and suddenly they were in a large room with a plush rug and furniture with curved feet and high backs. Everything was decorated in rich creams, and the wood was all dark browns.

  Mr. and Mrs. Beauchamp greeted them with an air of sophistication, both giving them a pleasant smile before reaching out their hands.

  “Pleased to meet you both,” Mrs. Beauchamp said, and Mr. Beauchamp offered them both a curt nod.

  Once the greetings were finished, Mr. Beauchamp, a short, broad-shouldered man with many worry lines on his forehead, took up a large chair and stuck a pipe in his mouth, immediately appearing disinterested.

  Mrs. Beauchamp, meanwhile, sat prim and proper on a chair beside him, hands gently clasped in her lap. She was the opposite of her husband. Tall and lithe without a wrinkle in sight. Irene guessed that she was close to forty, perhaps older, but many expensive creams and a practice of not creasing her face often seemed to have left her with smooth skin but a tired look in her eyes. Her honey-coloured hair was done up in perfect off-set victory rolls, the pin holding one side off her ears showed off diamond-encrusted earrings.

  The maid scurried out from the back of the flat, a tray of cakes in her hand. She sat the three-tier tree of goodies on the table and left quickly, presumably to get the tea. Irene exchanged a hungry glance at Joe and he appeared ready to devour every single one of the pink and yellow treats. Miss Hudson made biscuits and tea cakes, but these looked like they belonged in a palace. Real icing coated the small squares and circles, and a few of them even had smaller iced accents.

  “I want to thank you both for coming,” Mrs. Beauchamp announced. “This matter mostly concerns me, but my husband has his worries as well.”

  Mr. Beauchamp grunted from his chair. “It’s more of a curiosity, really.”

  The maid interrupted, bringing out the tea and cups and saucers that appeared to cost more than Irene’s automobile. Even the spoons were real silver.

  Joe made his cup with such delicate hands that Irene knew he’d tapped into his surgeon skills to stir each stroke precisely.

  The Beauchamp’s, however, made their tea as if the dishes were dispensable.

  The Setter trotted into the room and laid obediently at Mrs. Beauchamp’s feet, looking up at her with his tail thumping on the ground.

  “What’s his name?” Joe asked.

  “Winston.” Mrs. Beauchamp gave the dog a small scratch under the neck. “Is he not darling? I have people stop me on the streets to gaze at him.”

  Joe nodded in agreement, and Irene sipped her tea. Poor Joe wanted a puppy so badly, but Irene knew he was holding out because she had not spoken favourably about having a dog in 221B. That guilt now stirred in her stomach as he smiled as the beautiful red hound laying perfectly on the carpet.

  Irene started right into the case, keeping herself focused. “Miss Hudson informed us that someone is missing?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Mr. Garret Barry. Our trainer and organizer of our weekly tea.”

  “Trainer?” Joe asked, producing his leather-bound notebook from his pocket, ready to jot notes.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Beauchamp nodded. “For the dogs.”

  “And he also organizes weekly tea?” Irene said, failing to keep the confusion from her voice.

  “That is what I said.” Mrs. Beauchamp gave the dog another scratch, smiling at them like she’d given them all the information they needed and was ready for their solution.

  “I am aware that is what you said.” Irene tapped her finger on the teacup, holding back her impatience. “I’m just confused as to how the two relate to one another.”

  “Because he is the founder of the Red Rover Society, of course,” she said, sipping her tea.

  Irene had no idea what Mrs. Beauchamp was talking about, but the name alone was enough to at least investigate the man who’d set up these meetings. It was a rather bland mystery if one could even call it a mystery at all, but Irene knew that she had to at least hear Mrs. Beauchamp out, for Miss Hudson’s sake so Irene could say that she tried her best. It would also avoid embarrassing the landlady and causing Irene further grief.

  “Call me ignorant,” Irene continued. “For I am unaware as to what this Red Rover Society is, but if you could start at the beginning, I would love to hear all about it.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Beauchamp said before sighing as if remembering a great tragic tale. “The doorman, what’s his name?”

  “Freddie,” her husband answered.

  “Yes, Freddie,” she went on. “He brought us the paper one day in the spring and said a litter of these handsome red dogs had just been born and the only thing missing from the building were dogs. The pups even came with a trainer who would arrange a meeting once a week for the puppies to socialize and he would help train them. We all discussed the idea, and eight of us purchased a puppy each.”

  The maid brought another pot of warm tea and set it down. Irene stifled an annoyed grunt and looked around her to see Mrs. Beauchamp.

  “All eight tenants have a
dog like this one?” she asked. “And they all attend this Red Rover Society?”

  The maid straightened the cakes and, though the Beauchamps did not seem bothered at all, Irene found it distracting.

  “All eight do,” Mrs. Beauchamp replied. “Though there are only seven here right now. Mr. Wilton is off in Paris again. He should be back any day now, though.”

  “Does he travel to Paris often?” Irene asked, now thoroughly annoyed with the maid, who busied herself dusting the fireplace behind them.

  “He was stationed there during the war,” Mr. Beauchamp said. “We both were, and he fell in love with the city. I personally thought it was simply okay.”

  Mrs. Beauchamp smiled at her husband. “He mostly goes for the shopping, though. Brings us ladies back such nice goodies, but I do envy some of the treasures in the Wilton flat.”

  Irene set her teacup down on the matching saucer and caught the maid’s attention. The woman was clearly just here to eavesdrop on the conversation and bring gossip back to the others in the building, and Irene would have none of that.

  “If we could have some privacy, please,” she said to her.

  Mrs. Beauchamp shook her head. “Oh, she won’t be a bother.”

  “I’m sure she won’t.” Irene poured some more water in her tea. “But if this is as serious of a matter as you are making it, then I wish to speak without the ears of the staff present.”

  Mrs. Beauchamp sighed then gave a lazy wave of her hand. The maid gave a curt bow and scampered out of the room.

  “Where was I?” Mrs. Beauchamp continued. “Ah, yes. It started off as a few times a week. We would meet, the pups would play, and he’d teach them basic obedience. The park he chose was lovely and fenced in for the dogs. When the weather was foul, we rented a room at the Margaret Tea House, with its sizeable yard. We would have our tea while Mr. Barry and some of our staff tended to our dogs in the garden. He brought his own pair of dogs, the pups’ mother and father, to all but the last meeting.”

  Joe asked a question this time. “Did it concern you that he’d left his own dogs at home?”

  “Not at all,” Mrs. Beauchamp said. “Our dogs were big enough that he had his hands full with the lot of them. One day, we all expected our usual invitation with a time to meet at the tea house, but no such invitation came. We all conferred with one another, but not one of us had received a letter. So, there went our weekly tea.”

  She sighed as if reliving the disappointment all over again.

  “Could you not have organized it yourselves?” Irene suggested.

  The woman scoffed. “The point was that the entire thing was done for us. And it was to exercise and train the dogs.”

  “Do you know where Mr. Barry lives?” Irene questioned. “Or does anyone in this building?”

  “Freddie may know,” she replied, then leaned over her shoulder and yelled in such a loud voice that it echoed through the room. “Molly!”

  Within a minute, the previous maid, Molly, hurried into the room, out of breath.

  “Fetch Freddie for us,” Mrs. Beauchamp ordered.

  The maid nodded vigorously and scampered out of the flat.

  Mrs. Beauchamp gestured to the plate of cakes in front of them. “Please, eat more. I’d hate to see all that sugar go to waste.”

  Both Irene and Joe took two more cakes each.

  “Each flat has its own maid?” Irene said between bites, completely forgetting her manners as the icing melted in her mouth.

  “Erm, yes,” Mrs. Beauchamp replied, her lips pursing at Irene’s chewing.

  “How long have they all worked here?”

  “I can only speak for mine. We hired her last autumn.”

  “And she is happy with her duties?” Irene pressed.

  Mrs. Beauchamp shrugged. “She seems happy enough.”

  Molly and Freddie entered the flat, and without so much as a hello, Mrs. Beauchamp pointed at the poor boy.

  “Where did Mr. Barry say he lived?” she demanded. “Where did he keep his dogs?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure, Miss,” he said, twitching and fiddling, looking everywhere but at Mrs. Beauchamp.

  “You must know,” she protested. “I was sure you and he spoke about it.”

  “We did not, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

  She looked at Irene and shrugged, sipping at her tea. “There you have it.”

  Irene wasn’t wholly convinced, but before she could ask her own questions, Freddie hurried away, back to his post.

  “Do you mind if I take a look around the flat? Just in this main area here is fine.”

  Mrs. Beauchamp lit a cigarette, and her husband did the same.

  “Go right ahead.”

  Irene started with the large mantle over the grand fireplace, the flame burning away. She ran her eyes over every inch of the sitting room, hoping that the statues and pieces on the shelves would give her some reason to take more interest in this case, but none came. The different figures were spaced out awkwardly, most of the shelves having two items where three could fit, but the spacing suggested that was the way the Beauchamps liked their trinkets.

  She snapped pictures of the shelves anyway, just to have some point of reference and to allow Miss Hudson a chance to get a glimpse inside these flats. She’d already decided that she would attempt to draw some sort of conclusion with this case, if only to keep her skills up, but Mr. Beauchamp was right. This was more of a curiosity, but she would practise her skills and take as many pictures as she could of these luxurious flats to give Miss Hudson something to gawk at.

  “I don’t know what you are hoping to find,” Mrs. Beauchamp said.

  “Sometimes, I’m not entirely sure until I find it,” Irene replied, walking around the couch. “But, I will take your case, Mrs. Beauchamp. And I will find your missing trainer.”

  “Oh, wonderful!” She rose to her feet. “I shall pay you two days wages now, to get started, and we shall go from there.”

  She wiggled her fingers at her husband, and he stood and headed to an office on the other side of the flat.

  * * * * *

  Irene and Joe stepped off the lift, and Irene tucked the cheque further into her purse, Joe practically vibrating beside her.

  “Miss Hudson’s right,” he said gleefully. “This case will get us right through Christmas.”

  They reached the front doors, and Irene stopped Joe before he pushed them open.

  “One moment,” she said before opening the door herself and speaking to Freddie. “Will you step inside for a moment?”

  Freddie looked nervous, but that seemed to simply be his way. He did as asked, though, and stood in the lobby with them.

  “I need to know where Mr. Barry either lives or where he breeds his dogs,” Irene said.

  “I told you, ma’am, I don’t know.” He suddenly avoided eye contact.

  “I believe that you do,” she argued. “But don’t want to tell me.”

  “I swear that I don’t,” he stammered. “He doesn’t even talk to me much.”

  “Much?” Irene pressed. “What does he say to you when he does speak to you?”

  Freddie shook his head so Irene stepped closer to him, into his personal space, attempting to intimidate him the best she could.

  “The thing is,” Irene said, straightening the button on his lapel, keeping her voice low. “Right now this case is just with us, two private investigators, but should it move up the ladder and the police get involved, then they will want to interview you for information. I can guarantee they will not be as nice as I am, especially if they find out you’ve withheld information pertinent to this investigation from the get-go.”

  Freddie swallowed and shifted on his feet. He’d cracked, and Irene was momentarily shocked at how easy that was.

  “Okay, Miss. He did mention where he was keeping the dogs, but it was a good while ago, so I don’t know how–”

  “No matter,” Irene cut in, eager to find out the information.

  “He
said out on Wallow’s Way there was an old cottage perfect for whelping dogs, whatever that means. Has a red roof on it.”

  Irene smiled. “You have been quite helpful. I shall let the police know that you gave us the information we sought.”

  “Thank you, miss.” Poor Freddie looked infinitely relieved.

  “But, should you remember more, please contact us.” She held out her hand, and Joe gave her a piece of paper with their telephone number. She handed it to Freddie.

  Satisfied with the start of their case, Irene led Joe back to the Vauxhall, and they climbed inside.

  “Now for a drive to the country,” Joe said. “I wish we’d had some of those cakes to bring.”

  A sly smile spread over Irene’s face. “These cakes?”

  She produced a ball of napkins from her purse and opened them, revealing four small cakes resting in the fold.

  A grin broke out across Joe’s face. “Those cakes precisely.”

  Chapter II

  A Reunion with an Old Friend

  “Wallow’s Way!” Irene pointed to a crooked sign, and Joe took a sharp right, bouncing the car onto a dirt road. The street was in a neighbourhood just outside of London that had been untouched during the war. Twisted roads of small cottages dotted this patch of the countryside and would’ve made for quite a pretty picture on a puzzle or painting over a fireplace.

  Joe drove slowly down the road, helping Irene locate the cottage with the red roof. As he rolled past a rather quaint house with an old but sturdy wooden fence, furious barking came from the front garden, piercing through the car window.

  “That sound is too small for our Setters,” Irene observed.

  “That is the bark of a terrier,” Joe laughed.

  Sure enough, as they passed by, two West Highland terriers rushed the fence, barking at the car. They were scruffy and bold, and Joe laughed out loud, slowing the vehicle to a crawl to get a better look.