Valentine's Madness: A 1920s Historical Mystery Anthology

by Beth Byers

  Jimmy frowned. “There’s nothing more to it. Let it go.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” Jimmy snapped pulling at his hair so it fell in disheveled clumps.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Abigail snapped.

  Jimmy shoved away from his desk so fast it forced Abigail to back up or risk being run over. “Because you’ll be sorry if you don’t.”

  He grabbed his mug and stormed off.

  For a long minute Abigail stood there wondering at Jimmy’s over-reaction to a simple inquiry. She read through the article again, but there really wasn’t much there. It made her more determined to understand what was going on.

  Abigail returned to her desk. She didn’t need Jimmy. She’d just start at the beginning. She had a friend who was a detective, Timothy Gibbs. She knew him from her days with VAD during the war. They had maintained their friendship over the years, or rather until she took the job at the newspaper six months ago. They hadn‘t spoken since, but surely he would have forgiven her by now.

  She gathered her things and headed for the door. On the way she passed her friend and the newspaper’s receptionist Edith Cummings.

  “Going out so soon, darling?” The lovely blond chimed lowering her ever present compact.

  “Yes. There are a couple possible leads I’d like to track down. I should be back after lunch.”

  Edith leaned in close, her eyes eager. “Ooh, tell me what you’re working on, luv. I swear not to tell a soul.”

  Abigail grinned and pressed her finger to her lips as she went by. “Maybe when I return.” Edith always promised, then whispered about whatever she learned to the next person to walk by.

  Edith pouted, but Abigail ignored her and hurried on her way.

  Chapter Three

  Abigail entered the doors at New Scotland Yard silently rehearsing what she would say when she saw Timothy.

  The place smelled of stale tobacco and unwashed bodies. Two men sat cuffed and waiting on a bench midway down the hall near two constables who stood chatting amicably. Before her was a desk, and behind it sat the man she’d hoped to find. At the moment, the handsome red-haired Inspector sat there writing something on a pad of paper.

  Abigail buried her nerves and pasted a bright smile on her face. “Good day Inspector Gibbs, you are looking well. What are you doing manning the desk at New Scotland Yard?”

  Inspector Gibbs’ head snapped up, his pencil slipping slowly from his fingers. “Abb… I mean Miss Dutcher. Just waiting for the desk sergeant to return. What are you doing here? This isn’t no place for a lady.”

  Abigail’s smile broadened at this small sign he’d missed her. She’d missed him too.

  Two constables down the hall lifted their heads in surprise. The taller one, a middle-aged fellow whistled appreciatively, “If there’d been a sheba like this one visiting me back in the day, I never would have given up desk duty.”

  “Shut it, Mallory. Get back to work.”

  Constable Mallory snickered at his younger superior, but he moved further down the hall out of hearing range.

  Abigail did her best to ignore the man as she studied Timothy’s face. “It really is good to see you. It’s been too long.”

  “Yeah, it’s good to see you too Abby. But…” Timothy leaned back with a sigh, his eyes troubled. “I doubt you came all this way to get a good look at me. What is it you want?”

  He knew her too well. “Well, I have a matter of some import I’d like your help with, but it’s not the only reason I’m here. I’ve been worried about you. Could we go somewhere more private to talk?”

  “Why didn’t you telephone?”

  “To be honest, I wasn’t entirely certain you would take my call.”

  “Probably wouldn’t have.” A look of resignation passed over the Inspector’s face. “Fine, but then you gotta go. O’Brien, take over here. Constable Hammer should back shortly.”

  Inspector Gibbs joined Abigail on the other side of the desk as the shorter constable, O’Brien, moved to take his place. As he sat, the man winked at Abigail.

  “O’Brien…” Inspector Gibbs warned, then ushered Abigail out the door.

  He led them down the street to a small coffee shop, called Dell’s. It seemed to be a popular spot for the police.

  The waitress called Timothy by name then sat them at a corner table in the back and took their order. As soon as they were alone, Timothy said, “All right Abby, tell me what you want.”

  “It’s about a story I’m working on—”

  “Figures. It’s always about the story.”

  “That’s not fair. This is important.”

  “Like reporting on the latest fashion from Paris or getting your revenge on the gentry by exploiting their latest foibles in the morning paper is important.”

  Abigail’s emerald eyes flashed. This was an old argument, and one she wasn’t willing to have again. “You do not understand what you’re talking about, Timothy Gibbs, nor did I come here to listen while you lecture me. Perhaps, I made a mistake in coming here today.”

  She stood, ready to leave.

  “You are right,” Timothy said taking her hand and tugging at it until she reluctantly sat. He let her go. They sat in awkward silence for a time before he asked “What brought you to New Scotland Yard?”

  “I want to know if there’s anything you can tell me about a body found in the alley off Haymarket, two days ago.”

  “You mean that kid. What are you doing getting mixed up with murder cases?”

  “So it was murder.” Abigail observed. “What happened? How did the child die?”

  “He wasn’t as young as that newspaper of yours tells. Probably fourteen or fifteen years of age, and much like any other that lives on the street. What happened to the lad is tragic, but I don’t see what it matters.”

  Until that moment, Abigail hadn’t realized how much she’d feared hearing the dead person was female. It was irrational for her to worry over a girl she’d not known existed until two days ago, but she did. Maybe it was because Eli reminded her of the little sister she’d once had, who now rested at the bottom of the sea.

  “Maybe it doesn’t, but I’m writing a followup story and I want to know. The boy deserves for someone to remember him, don’t you agree?”

  Timothy’s’ expression hardened. “There’s plenty that should be remembered, but aren’t.”

  “True enough, and I intend to see this one is remembered. What can you tell me?”

  Timothy didn‘t want to tell her. “I can‘t divulge details regarding an ongoing investigation to the newspaper. Why don’t you stick to writing what you’re good at? Society events, or the latest fashions.”

  Abigail swallowed the last of her coffee, letting the empty cup clatter onto its saucer. “How about you tell me what I want to know, and I promise to not divulge my source.”

  Timothy glared at Abigail while she glared back, waiting for him to relent. A minute later, he did. “O’Brien’s the one who discovered the body. When I investigated, I saw the lad was too poor for it to be robbery, and no weapon was found which probably means it was an argument gone bad.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Those boys don’t have names.”

  “They do. You just don’t know what it is.”

  “Same difference.”

  Abigail disagreed entirely, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she thanked Timothy for his time then dug in her purse for the coin to pay the bill.

  As she set it on the table, Inspector Gibbs bristled. “I don’t need no charity, Abby.”

  She shook her head and stood. “This isn’t charity. I came here hoping to meet with an old friend and investigate a story. I feel it’s my obligation to pick up the tab. Now, I must be going.”

  Timothy groaned but didn‘t argue. “Will I see you again?”

  “I suppose that depends on you, Timothy. Goodbye.” Abigail squeezed his hand, then walked out of the shop to hail a taxi.

  “Dr
iver, please let me out here.”

  The taxi drew to a stop at the corner of Norris and Haymarket. Abigail paid the man and climbed out. The morning drizzle had ceased during the ride leaving the city blanketed in grey.

  She crossed the street to the opening of the alley where the boy had died. She wanted to see the place for herself.

  It was dingy, full of shadows, and littered with debris. Inspector Gibbs said no weapon was found, but she decided it couldn’t hurt to comb the area, anyway. Slowly she moved toward the back of the alley using the tip of her umbrella to push things aside. There was nothing here.

  Abigail sighed and turned to leave when her co-worker, Jimmy Atkins, rushed in and headed straight to the brick wall on the far side from where she stood. He didn’t seem to notice her presence.

  What the devil are you doing? Abigail wondered deciding to remain still and watch as the youth felt along the wall until he came to a loose brick and tug on it until it came free. He then withdrew a small object wrapped in old oil cloth. He tucked the object inside his jacket pocket, returned the brick to the wall and ran out.

  What could Jimmy possibly have taken from there?

  Curious, Abigail crossed to the wall and removed the brick to peak inside. Behind the brick was a tidy little hole perfect for hiding small objects. She stuck her hand inside and felt around but nothing was there. As she withdrew her hand, her glove swept against the bottom and came away coated with a dark almost rust colored substance.

  She was still thinking on that when she emerged onto the sidewalk. Abigail hadn’t gone ten feet when she heard a masculine voice say, “Good afternoon, Miss Dutcher. What a pleasant surprise to see you again so soon.”

  “Oh, hello.” Abigail’s gaze settled on the handsome Mr. Isaac Townsend standing too close for comfort. That made twice in nearly as many days. Of all the bad luck. “Tell me Mr. Townsend, is my cousin paying you to spy on me?”

  His smile slipped. He glanced into the alley where she’d just come before responding. “No. Should he be?”

  Abigail fumed, but it was probably no more than she deserved if he did not work for her cousin. Perhaps an apology was in order. “My apologies. I am always suspicious of my cousin’s acquaintances. What brings you out this dreary afternoon?”

  “Lunch. You?”

  “I’m here regarding a story I’m researching.”

  “Ah, I presume it has nothing to do with the Winslow story that appeared on the front page of this morning’s edition of the St. James Gazette?”

  Abigail blushed. Why did everyone have to read that one? “Good grief, no. That piece of fiction was all George’s doing.”

  Mr. Townsend’s gaze narrowed infinitesimally. “Hmm, I could have sworn I saw your name on the by-line.”

  “Yes well, George has a tendency to embellish my stories, when it suits his purposes.”

  That was a mistake. Mr. Townsend was a lawyer who might well do business with the Winslow family. If he did, she’d just admitted the St. James Gazette did not concern itself with printing the truth. Quickly she amended with “I’ve already had words with George and I am confident he will print a retraction soon.” Only the latter was an exaggeration.

  “I see.” His shoulders relaxed, a smile lurking at the corners of his lips. “In that case, would you care to join me for lunch?”

  The mention of food made Abigail’s stomach rumble. All she’d had this morning was her cup of tea and the coffee she’d had with Timothy. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Townsend.”

  “Marvelous, but please call me Isaac.” Mr. Townsend grinned. He reached out to tuck Abigail’s hand in the crook of his arm when he noticed the smudge on her glove. He frowned. “What is this?”

  “It’s nothing. Just a little dirt—”

  “I don’t think so. It looks like dried blood.”

  Abigail snatched her hand back alarmed. She examined it closer. Sure enough, it definitely looked like dried blood. Her face paled. “Oh, dear.”

  “Where did this come from?” Isaac said, checking her over as if to make certain she was whole, then shifting his hazel gaze to the alley again.

  “I cannot say, though I’m afraid I must take a rain check on lunch.”

  Abigail turned to leave.

  Isaac didn’t let her go. “Wait a moment, please.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t. Good day.”

  Abigail hurried down the street too worried to maintain a casual pace. She dodged several well-dressed shoppers without offering an apology. All she could think was that she needed to talk to Jimmy. Not for a minute would she let herself believe he was a killer, but nor could she shake her rising suspicions. The only way she could eliminate those was to figure out what it was Jimmy had pulled from behind that brick.

  By the time she reached the office everyone had returned from lunch, except for Jimmy.

  Abigail went straight to the reception desk. “Edith, have you seen Jimmy?”

  “No, luv,” Edith chirped with a wink. “But, I saw you.”

  “Pardon me?” Abigail said momentarily confused.

  “With that swell over on Haymarket.”

  Abigail’s eyes went wide. “What in the world were you doing over there?”

  “I was dining with that nice Mr. Johnson from the fourth floor. He’s very interested in pursuing a career in journalism. Now tell me.”

  Abigail did not know who Mr. Johnson was, nor did she care. “No one. Just a man I met the other day. I need to speak to Jimmy.”

  “Well, he didn’t look like no one to me. In fact, he looked quite splendid tall like he was with dark wavy hair I’d like to run my fingers through.” Edith’s eyes turned dreamy. “Do you think he’s got friends?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Where is Jimmy?”

  “Fine, don’t share.” Edith’s grin turned into a pout. She scooped up her compact then set it down again. “All I can tell you is Jimmy ran off right after you this morning and hasn’t been back.”

  Abigail sighed with frustration. “As soon as he returns, please tell him I need to speak with him.”

  “Sure thing, luv,” Edith said turning her attention back to her compact. “So long as you give me the gossip on that fine fella I saw you with afterwards.”

  “Fine,” Abigail answered, her tone clipped.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Abigail busied herself at her desk, afraid to go out. Periodically she cast furtive looks around the newsroom and hoping Edith would wander over to tell her Jimmy had returned.

  He never returned.

  Once Abigail thought she caught sight of someone hurrying down the hall toward the break room, but when she looked Edith’s way, her friend was nowhere in sight, and when she walked in to the room with her cup in hand, no one was there.

  By the end of the day, Abigail was no closer to getting more answers. Dejected, she headed home and a long boring evening.

  Chapter Four

  “Time to wake Abigail dear,” Abigail’s longtime maid chimed as she hurried about drawing the curtains back to let the sunlight in then going about tidying the room. Margaret Blyth had move energy at fifty-three than Abigail had at twenty-three.

  Abigail shielded her eyes, blinking several times as she mumbled, “What time is it?”

  “Nearly noon. I dare say, you completely slept the morning away. You even had a visitor stop by a couple hours ago though I dare say I sent him away. It’s not right strange men calling on women so early in the day.”

  Ten o’clock in the morning was not so early. Abigail threw back her cover and donned her red silk robe.

  “Oh Margaret, we live in the modern age now. Women and men are free to come and go as they please.”

  Margaret clucked her tongue in disapproval, but didn’t say more. The woman was never afraid to voice her opinion or criticize Abigail’s chosen way of life. Abigail tolerated her for two reasons; the woman was an outstanding housekeeper, and she was Abigail’s last link to the past she’d forsaken seven years ago.
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  It didn’t stop Abigail from muttering her breath about nosy housekeepers while she waited for Margaret to tell her who had visited. Abigail knew it wasn’t Timothy because Margaret knew Timothy well and would have gladly invited him to wait in the parlor while she went upstairs to wake Abigail.

  It didn‘t take long for Margaret’s nosiness to get the better of her and to provide the answer. “It was one of them gentlemen from the old days. A Mr. Isaac Townsend. I didn’t think you invited his sort to the house these days. He claims to be a neighbor and that you’d be expecting him to call, though last I knew there was no Townsend living on Cowley Street. Could be he recently moved in to Westmoor Manor. I hear it recently sold.”

  A warm fuzzy feeling invaded Abigail’s heart which she promptly pushed away. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Then perchance you would enlighten me on how you came to become acquainted with this Mr. Townsend.”

  “I would not. Now if you’d be so kind, I’d be most appreciative if you would ready my bath. I plan to go into the office this afternoon.”

  Abigail went to the window and stared down at the street as Margaret gaped for a long minute before retreating to go about doing her lady’s bidding.

  Silence is a wonderful thing, Abigail thought as she entered the tomblike St. James Gazette newsroom. The paper did not print a weekend edition, so the offices were often quiet on weekends. Today was no different.

  It was the perfect opportunity to ring Mr. Townsend. At home Margaret would eavesdrop shamelessly. At least here, her only eavesdropper might the operator.

  A noise out in the hall distracted Abigail, but when no one appeared, she marched into the George’s office, leaving the door open. She set her things aside and retrieved Mr. Townsend’s card from her purse. She drew in a deep breath to steady her nerves, then lifted the receiver to speak to the operator when a second noise drew her attention and the front doors opened. Jimmy Atkins strolled in carrying an instrument case. She let the receiver drop back onto the cradle.