The Red Rover Society

by Allison Osborne

  Joe watched as the dog jumped up on Sasha again, and she giggled. His eyes drifted to Irene. A huge smile stretched across her face, and it was the most forced grin Joe had ever seen on her. Her hands were tightly clasped together, and she looked on the verge of erupting into a fit of mad giggles or dropping her phoney niceness and harshly deducing embarrassing facts about everyone at the table. The sight made him both amused and concerned all at once.

  He turned back to the gentlemen. “Excuse me.”

  They nodded and went right back into their conversation. Joe hurried over to Irene just in time to hear the tail end of their exchange.

  A lady dressed in peacock blue laughed and touched Irene’s arm. “Oh, my dear. You are too much. If I put you in my tea, you would simply dissolve!”

  Irene chuckled. “Then you would have no one to solve your mystery.”

  They all laughed, seemingly charmed by her witty banter. Irene, however, looked ready to crack.

  At Joe’s approach, all the ladies’ eyes went to him, and he suddenly grew nervous. They looked like they either wanted to take a bite out of him like a piece of cake, or wanted to wait for him to say something silly, so they could mock him. Joe slipped his arm around Irene’s waist and gave a gentle tug as he begged his mouth to say something smart.

  “Isn’t this a fine-looking table?” he said, attempting to channel Carey Grant in any capacity. “Terribly sorry for the intrusion, ladies, but I must steal this one away for a moment.”

  The ladies looked at one another, eyes widening, clearly taken with Joe and his charms, and that made him sweat even more. He hurried Irene toward the door before he could make a fool of himself and ruin whatever facade had impressed them.

  As soon as he and Irene made it into the coatroom, Irene threw her head back and let out such a groan Joe worried that they’d hear it in the ballroom.

  “Oh Joe,” she moaned, and Joe waved his hands to remind her to keep her voice low, lest people eavesdrop at the odd noises coming from such a small room. Irene didn’t heed his warning and dramatically put the back of her wrist to her forehead. “Put me out of my misery. Quickly, right through the fourth and fifth rib.”

  That gave Joe pause, and he chuckled darkly. “That’s gruesomely specific. And you are doing fine.”

  She blinked at him and gestured wildly. “She said she wants to dissolve me in tea. She compared me to sugar.”

  “Because you are sweet!”

  “Pah!” Irene waved him off and put her hands on her hips in stubborn defiance. “There’s hardly any tea here either, as they all appear to be sipping champagne.”

  “Your father must’ve solved many cases involving rich folk,” Joe added. “Would he respond like this? With these words?”

  “Yes!” She nodded empathically. “Except he would say them out loud in front of everyone.”

  “Oh dear,” Joe said, trying to hide a smile before it stretched across his face.

  Irene sighed. “I asked if any of the ladies wore a black fur coat, and they all said no. Two of them wear brown fur, but not black.”

  “Then who was the woman meeting Mr. Barry at the cottage?”

  Irene shrugged. “That is just one of the questions we shall ask him.”

  “I’d like to know how he came in possession of the sapphire necklace, as well,” Joe said. “Mr. Wilton insists that it’s not his and was not taken from his flat.”

  Irene raised a brow. “These people both confound and intrigue me, Joe.”

  “You can keep the intrigue,” Joe said with a slight laugh. “I’d rather have my chair and novel as opposed to this activity week after week.”

  Irene smirked up at him. “You made a pretty convincing Carey Grant in there.”

  He grinned back at her. “It worked?”

  “It did, indeed.”

  “I didn’t know you knew the cinema that well,” he admitted, trying to recall a time when they discussed motion pictures and coming up empty-handed.

  She shrugged. “I used to go out a lot more, I even tried to enjoy London and what little it offered during the war, but the air raids were exhausting, and I did not enjoy crowding into shelters with strangers.”

  “We shall have to go to the cinema more, then.”

  Irene waved him off. “Dancing on Friday nights and the cinema with me? Then what would you do with that librarian? Oh, Joe, I am perfectly fine at Baker Street.”

  He wanted to ask her more questions, push her until she told him how she really felt. Irene wasn’t fine, but he had no idea why. Perhaps the case was just a lot on her shoulders right now. She didn’t seem like the jealous type at all, so he doubted that envy was the cause, but since meeting with Michael and Sarah, she seemed to be either in deep thought or completely preoccupied with other things.

  Before he could dwell anymore on her, she rolled her shoulders back.

  “Right,” she said. “Let’s go have a chat with Mr. Barry. See what he’s been up to.”

  They entered the ballroom again and stayed to the sidewall in an attempt to by-pass everyone and head straight to the back garden. As they approached the glass door to the outside, Joe slowed. He saw eight dogs and four maids, and no Mr. Barry.

  “Do you see him?” Irene asked, voice as frantic as he felt. “I cannot find him.”

  Joe shook his head in disappointment. “I do not see him at all.”

  Irene pivoted and marched toward Mrs. Beauchamp, who smiled at her approach.

  “Hello, darling,” she giggled, half a glass of champagne in her hand. “Are you enjoying yourselves?”

  “Where is Mr. Barry?”

  “He is not here,” Mrs. Beauchamp said as if it were common knowledge.

  “Not here?” Irene repeated in disbelief. “Then where is he? The whole point of us coming to the ridiculous affair was to question him.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Beauchamp recoiled as if Irene’s words physically assaulted her. She tamped out her cigarette, lips pursed, seemingly collecting herself before she spoke again. “He sent his regrets in a telegram but said that everything would be arranged and that he would be at the next meeting to see how our dogs were coming along. He would do this on occasion, either run late or have to leave early, but he was always so polite about it. Quite a charming man, actually.”

  Panic struck Joe as he saw Irene’s reaction. She clenched her fists, jaw taut with anger and frustration. He needed to get her out of this room even more than before.

  “Not a bother,” he said hastily. “Excuse us.”

  He took her waist, just like before, and steered her toward the back door to the garden.

  “He is not even here, Joe,” she bit out.

  “I know.” He kept a firm grasp on her as they avoided the group of men and their cigar smoke.

  “Joe.” She repeated his name as if he didn’t understand the point she was trying to make.

  “I know,” he hissed and pushed the back door open, ushering her outside.

  As soon as her feet touched the grass, she whipped around to him. “What was the bloody point in us being here, Joe?”

  He made sure the door was shut behind him and hurried her far away from the glass as he didn’t know how well the sound would travel through the windows.

  She marched to the opposite end of the garden. “For heaven’s sake. Why? Why did I get dressed up in this silly dress? Why did I engage in pointless conversations with those women? Their hats were just as confounding as their need to impress one another even though they are supposedly all friends. Oh, how I loathe the rich and their ignorance. England could fall around them –and it did– and as long as their marble floors and gold chandeliers were intact or could be replaced, then the Germans could have at London.”

  All Joe could do was stare at her as she went on her tirade. He worried that if he tried to stop her, he’d get bitten and she would simply continue on with her rant.

  He did need to stop her, though, as she’d attracted the attention of eight dogs and four
maids, all of whom stared at her. A few of the dogs gave small ‘woofs’ and trotted over.

  “Irene.” He gently grabbed her arms in an attempt to get her focus on him. “We do not have Mr. Barry, but we do have four women out here who might have some answers for us.”

  Irene clenched her jaw as she stared at him, chest heaving. “I suppose that you’re right.”

  She spun to the maids and came face to face with all the Setters. They sniffed at her dress and shoes, and she waved her hands in a small panic. Joe laughed and came to her aid.

  He slapped his thighs and jogged away from her. “C’mon pups! Let’s go.”

  That excited them and they all barked and chased him across the garden. He found a stick on the ground and snapped it in two before throwing the pieces. All the dogs chased it, and he scooted back to Irene.

  She was interviewing Sasha, the Wiltons’ maid.

  “And you’ve noticed nothing missing?” she asked stiffly, attempting to control herself.

  The maid looked everywhere but Irene when she spoke. “No ma’am.”

  “Who is cleaning the flats while you ladies are here?” Joe asked.

  “As the tea party finishes,” she began. “We bring the dogs in and rush home before they arrive to make sure everything is in working order.”

  “What of the doorman, Freddie?” Irene asked. “He seemed quite keen on the dogs. Does he ever assist in these meetings?”

  “No,” Sasha replied quickly, fiddling with her hands so much that Joe swore her fingers would fall off at any moment. “He stays by the flats and makes sure no one goes in.”

  “There must be other doormen,” Joe continued. “Surely he can’t be the only one.”

  “No sir,” she said. “There are three others that rotate shifts.”

  “He is always the one here when the Society meets, though,” Irene stated, and the maid nodded.

  “They must trust him the most then,” Joe added, attempting to keep up with Irene and her quick thinking.

  The maid shrugged. “I suppose so, sir.”

  Irene folded her arms across her chest, a look that contradicted her formal wear. “How many others know about the Red Rover Society?”

  “They make no effort to keep a secret,” Sasha said.

  “Are any of the maids, including yourself, married?” Irene asked.

  “No ma’am.”

  Irene narrowed her eyes. “Are any of you seeing anyone?”

  Sasha fumbled over her words. “No, of course not.”

  Irene turned to Joe “Well, I think we’re finished here.”

  A sudden bold streak must have come over the maid because she took a step toward Irene. “Does this mean the investigation is over, considering Mr. Barry has returned?”

  “Has he though?” Irene said, voice sharp. “Because all I see are a group of giggling maids and a pack of silly red dogs.”

  And with those words, Irene pivoted and marched back inside the building. Joe hurried to catch up and reached her as she interrupted Mrs. Beauchamp.

  “This party has been...something,” she admitted. “But we shall take our leave now.”

  “Oh, you mustn’t,” she said. “Everyone here simply adores watching you both work. It’s like our own dinner mystery show!”

  Joe’s breath caught in his throat in a moment of panic when Irene’s eyes flashed in rage. He needed to get her out of this building before she went on another rant right here in this fancy hall.

  “You hired me to figure out where Mr. Barry has disappeared to,” Irene said, words strained as she attempted to contain herself. “And since he is not here, he is therefore still missing, and I shall continue my investigation. But, right now, that takes me out of this ballroom and over to the east end of London. If you and your party want to follow us to the docks, I’m sure the Underground will accommodate us all.”

  Mrs. Beauchamp stared for a second, then a well-practised smile slid over her face.

  “You are so unique and sharp-witted, Miss Holmes.” She said the words with a genuine compliment. “It does seem like our problems have been solved, but you continue your search, and I shall keep paying your fee should you turn up any evidence of foul play with our organizer.”

  “Thank you,” Irene replied. “Do call should things take a turn again. Also, may I take a tray of cakes?”

  “Cakes?” Mrs. Beauchamp repeated, confused. “Of course, if you need them.”

  “Excellent.” Irene marched to a table with a new tier of lovely-coloured cakes and picked the entire thing up by the stem. She handed them to Joe for him to carry before heading to the door.

  Joe gave an awkward wave, all remnants of Carey Grant gone from his demeanour, and he followed Irene out the door, balancing the tray.

  * * * * *

  Joe sat in the passenger seat of the Vauxhall, the tray of cakes on his lap, as Irene drove them back to Baker Street.

  “What are we going to do with the cakes?” he asked.

  “Eat them, of course,” she said as if it were obvious.

  Joe cast her a sidelong glance. “Why did you take the tray?”

  “What else was I going to do, dump them into my purse?” She flashed him a cheeky smile.

  “I suppose not.” He popped a small yellow one in his mouth and the icing melted on his tongue. “Also, why are we going to the east end?”

  “Freddie is from the east end,” Irene said. “When we spoke to him days ago, I observed the smell of fish from his clothing and slimy mud on the hem of his pants from the docks. We shall follow him tomorrow when he gets off his shift. For now, though, we shall give some of these cakes to Miss Hudson to see if she can replicate the recipes, and we shall write all the information we have learned on our board.”

  * * * * *

  Joe awoke to the faint ringing of the telephone in the sitting room downstairs. The noise was so faded that he almost turned over and went back to sleep, but the ringing persisted.

  Then a loud thud sounded, subsequent rumbles followed, and that forced him to sit up in his bed, curious as to what was happening below.

  He rolled out of bed and grabbed his robe, tugging it over one arm. Glancing at the clock, he groaned.

  Half-past two.

  Joe stumbled down the stairs, fumbling with his other sleeve, his slippers on the wrong feet. He heard a few more loud bangs, and when he burst through the door, he collided with Irene. They both crashed to the ground as the phone screamed above them.

  “What is happening?” Joe managed, hoisting himself to his feet. He extended a hand to Irene.

  “Someone is desperate to get a hold of us apparently,” she said, looking as tired as he felt. She marched over to the phone as Joe looked around for the source of the thumps he heard earlier.

  A trunk of clothes sat in the doorway of Irene’s bedroom, tipped over, clothes spilling out. A dining room chair was knocked over, and several books from the side table by the couch were scattered on the floor.

  “Holmes,” Irene mumbled into the receiver, forgoing her first name entirely. Screeching erupted on the other end, and she winced, holding the telephone a few inches away from her ear. “Mrs. Beauchamp, your screaming is insufferable. Please stop.”

  The noise from the other end silenced.

  “Thank you.” Irene leaned on the small table, eyes closed, and sighed. Joe took up a place beside her, tucked shoulder to shoulder. “Pray, continue, Mrs. Beauchamp.”

  “Miss Holmes,” the woman exclaimed, panic laced throughout her voice. “There has been a most terrible crime!”

  Chapter V

  A Trip to the East End

  Mrs. Beauchamp’s urgent words through the phone roused Irene a little more, and she attempted to straighten and pay attention.

  “What type of crime?” Irene asked, bending to rub her shin where she’d tripped over her trunk. Her elbow also throbbed, but she had no idea what she’d hit it on.

  “My statue is missing,” Mrs. Beauchamp cried. “Taken rig
ht from under my nose.”

  Joe stumbled over to his chair and grabbed his notebook before resuming his position beside Irene. She leaned on him as he wrote down Mrs. Beauchamp’s words.

  “And you noticed this at half-past two in the morning?” Irene stifled a yawn.

  “Yes,” she said. “I have great trouble falling asleep sometimes, and I enjoy a late-night cigarette and tea. And when I went to my shelf, she was gone.”

  “Who?”

  “The statue, Miss Holmes! The dancing woman.” Mrs. Beauchamp’s voice pierced through the receiver again, and Irene held the telephone away from her ear. She tried hard in her sleepy state to recall a statue of a dancing woman, but she could remember no such piece of art on any shelf in the Beauchamp residence. “I don’t think you had a dancing woman on your shelves when we were there.”

  “Of course I did,” she snapped. “And now she is gone!”

  “Mrs. Beauchamp, your voice is simply too shrill for this time in the morning,” Irene complained. “Doctor Watson and I will come over at ten o’clock and investigate it more. For now, be sure your doors are locked and do get some sleep.”

  “Oh, alright.” She sounded like she didn’t want to hang up the phone, but she muttered a ‘good-bye’ and the line went dead.

  Irene hung up the receiver and rubbed her eyes before pushing some fallen hair from her face. She’d attempted to keep the curls that Jeannie worked so hard on in her hair by pinning them back up before she went to bed, but it didn’t appear to be working as half of them were falling off her head and hanging around her shoulders.

  “You remember a dancing woman?” she asked Joe.

  “Nope,” he mumbled through a yawn.

  “Me neither,” she said before spotting the overturned chair, open trunk, and books, finally figuring out where her sore elbow had come from. “Did I make that mess?”

  “I believe so,” Joe chuckled before stepping forward to presumably fix the chair.

  “It can wait until the morning. Let’s go back to bed.” She headed to her bedroom. “Good night, Joe.”

  He cast her one last sleepy look. “Night, Irene.”

  She pushed the trunk into the living room and out of the way, shutting the bedroom door. Irene was just about to flop onto her bed when she heard shuffling furniture from the kitchenette. Opening her door a half-inch, she peered through the crack. Joe righted the dining chair, then scooped the clothes into the trunk. He shut the lid and winced as the metal buckles clacked.