by S. E. Smith
McGregor held an envelope in one hand and a piece of pink paper in the other.
“I won’t summarise the letter’s contents,” he told me, “it’s probably best to read it yourself. However, this one ...” he waved the pink sheet “... is direct. Look in Millie’s throat if you want the truth!”
“Intriguing.”
I took the missive from him, and spent a few moments examining the envelope. Manila. Sturdy, and mass-produced. Apart from the smell of jasmine, I learned nothing else. But as I viewed the neatly typed front, it didn’t take a genius to discover that the “T” was worn and had a slight backwards slant to it. No stamp: so, hand-delivered. I took the letter out: a single handwritten sheet.
McGregor looked at me, “Well?”
“The handwriting’s round, neat – a cursive script. I would say she’s been educated beyond elementary learning.”
“She? How d’you deduce that?” The scorn was back. “It’s unsigned.”
“The scent’s oriental – jasmine. Not overpowering, but too sweet for a man. The writer has an eye for detail. The spelling and grammar are perfect, and the vocabulary indicates wide reading. Let me show you.” I read the letter out loud, emphasising certain words and phrases to make my point.
“Sir,
I would consider it the greatest kindness if you were to investigate my friend’s death. From what I have been able to ascertain, you are a man dedicated to finding the truth. I spoke with Millie’s family and friends. No one had any idea she intended to visit Brighton. Indeed, they said her plans for the Christmas season involved a trip, via Harwich, to Paris, and from there to Marseilles.
Rest assured on reading your report, whatever its findings, I will ensure suitable recompense for your trouble.”
I glanced up to find a smiling McGregor. Obviously, the emphasis worked. “I see what you mean. Keep it, my lord,” McGregor stated carefully. “You’ll have more use for it than I.”
“Any word from her yet?”
The doctor shook his head. “No. And until I sent the report to Scotland Yard, it’s been kept under lock and key. A key that came home with me. We’ve not been broken into; the key remained in my pocket. No one – apart from me, Sir Charles, and your good self – has read it. I can’t see how our mysterious writer will ever read it.”
“You may be surprised. I think your correspondent’s far more resourceful than you credit.”
McGregor shrugged, and something in his manner made me refrain from saying anything else. There were some things people had to learn for themselves.
I put the Brownie box camera back into the Gladstone bag and straightened up. “Nevertheless, Doctor, if you hear from the young lady, do tell me what she sends by way of payment. My instinct is for something tasteful. A ring perhaps; maybe an Albert chain.”
“I will, my lord.”
“Byrd, please.”
Smiling, McGregor accompanied me to the door of the mortuary. “I’m very sorry to have misjudged you,” he said as he released my hand. “When Scotland Yard said you were coming to view the body, I thought ... well ... I’m sorry ...”
“No need. When all you see’s the public image, it’s easy to make the judgement you did. However, keep your re-evaluation to yourself. Being mistaken for a playboy’s a handy cover, as the Americans would say.”
McGregor smiled. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Watkins demanded, and was given, a summary of the afternoon’s. Nodding approvingly when I told him of McGregor’s changing attitude.
“By the looks of it, guv, you’re goin’ to be kept busy with this one.”
“Indeed.”
“Her Ladyship won’t like that,” Watkins muttered as the engine roared into life.
“Lady Serena will just have to get used to it,” I replied in a manner designed to stop further conversation. “Besides, she’s getting too demanding of my time.”
Watkins, a lady’s man of much repute, muttered something too impolite to grace the pages of this account, and I decided it was time to remind him who was in charge. “Now, if you could do the job you’re paid to do, I should be eternally grateful.”
Watkins mimed locking his mouth, but otherwise gave no sign he heard me.
As we reached the end of the road, a young man, wearing a mackintosh slightly too large for him, lit a cigarette. Something about the youth drew my attention. I turned around and looked out of the narrow back window, determined to get a better view of the person who made no attempt, whatsoever, to hide. But the collar of his mac was turned up against the rain, and the rim of the flat cap threw shadows across the face, making identification impossible. I sighed and settled back against the squabs.
“This is getting interesting,” I said to no one in particular. “But who’s being watched? Me or McGregor?”
“Could be someone working for the girl, you’ve just tol’ me about, guv,” Watkins piped up from the front.
“I would never have guessed. As always, Watkins, your deductive powers show you’re wasted as my driver. How insightful!” I replied without looking up. “Now stop dawdling. I’m late. And when I tell Bertie it was all your fault the Yeoman of the Guard’ll clap you in irons.”
Watkins laughed. “Whatever, guv. Will you be wantin’ me any further this evening?”
“Not in the cab. But if you bring the Mercedes around the front in an hour and a half, you can drive me to the Keppels' summer residence.”
Sampson waited – G&T at the ready. “Your bath’s prepared and as you’re dining at home, so to speak, I have taken the liberty of laying out your dinner coat.”
“Thank you.”
He refilled my glass with practised efficiency. “A profitable afternoon, Major?”
I nodded and changed the subject. “What colour’s His Royal Highness wearing this evening?” I asked as I walked towards the bathroom.
“Green.” A pause. “I laid out the umber brocade, I trust that will be satisfactory.”
“Indeed. Thank you, Sampson. That will be all.”
He turned to leave but a sudden thought stopped him in his tracks. “I’m sorry,” Sampson was all apologies. “I forgot to mention it earlier, your request I take Miss Clarke for a drink put it right out of my head, but I have ascertained Sir Clive and Lady Carrington left on Monday for New York. They’re not due back till New Year.”
“Thanks.” I smiled at the older man: “Don’t wait up to tell me all about your evening with the under-housemaid. I have a feeling it’ll be a late night, with the Prince.”
With a heavy sigh, Sampson turned his back on me and left the room.
The afternoon’s activity gave me much to think about. Jones’ death was indeed a conundrum – and one that stretched beyond the brutality of her killing. Naively, I hoped my trip to the seaside would shed light upon a potential motive; possibly even indicate who the murderer was. It had not. All I could say for certain was that not only was there more to the thirty-year old’s death than met the eye, but someone was insistent to involve me in the investigation. Very insistent indeed.
Sunday 4th November.
“Did you know there’s still a girl from Ma Char's cleaning company at the Carrington’s?” I heard CC tell Sampson as he arrived for breakfast that morning. “Pretty young thing. Not their usual type of employee at all. But the uniform's distinctive, so perhaps we've been mistaken and they're not all harridans.”
My valet said nothing. He hadn’t said much, truth be told, since Saturday morning when, slightly the worse for wear, I woke him up at 2:30am; singing songs about the “rat-catcher’s daughter”, and adding verses that never would have made it on stage.
“Sergeant, I’ve just come from Downing Street. Any chance of a coffee?” CC continued in his best commanding officer voice.
“For you, Colonel, I’ll go and put the pot on the stove personally and if you want anything different to what's on offer on the sideboard, I'm sure Imran will only be too happy to oblige.” Sampson only u
sed CC’s former rank when he wanted to convey to my cousin how out of favour I was.
I winced.
A few moments later, CC, drying his hair with one of my best towels, entered the breakfast room.
“Still raining?” I said by way of greeting. When he didn’t answer, I went for sarcasm. “Oh, do take a seat, there’s a good chap and stop cluttering up the place! And for goodness sake, don’t wait for Sampson to serve you! He’s in a foul mood doncha know? More likely to spit in your egg, than pass the time of day.”
CC, obviously siding with my valet, headed to the chafing dishes on the sideboard and helped himself to the three remaining sausages and two rashers of bacon.
“Were you expecting me?” he asked as he levered a fried egg on to the plate and gave it a companion in the shape of a slice of black pudding.
I smiled and made my tone as fatuous as I could. “It’s Sunday, cousin dearest. Violet’s in the country.” I gave a mock shudder as I said the word, but still CC refused to smile. “Where else would you be?”
CC sat down with a thud and gave me a concerned, almost fatherly look. “You heard me tell Sampson the Ma Char girl’s still opposite?”
“Hope you didn’t make a fool of yourself, CC. It’s tremendously important we don’t spook the chit.”
He bridled. “I am a member of Her Majesty’s constabulary. I think I know how to observe people discretely. Sometimes I think India addled what little brain you had!” he snapped as he sliced into the sausage with a venom that surprised me.
Deciding not to ask him what was wrong I focussed on telling him about my trip to Brighton. “You were correct to involve me in the Jones girl’s death.”
CC took another bite of sausage.
“Girl was a gem courier. Don’t know who for. Hatton Garden deny she worked for them. Still what’s life if we don’t have time to admire it? Eh, CC?”
My flippancy was ignored.
“Don’t they normally employ men?”
“Usually,” I agreed. “But not if you need the border guards to be interested in the pretty face and not the suitcase she’s travellin’ with.” I winked heavily before continuing. “Besides, CC old thing, I get the feeling this consignment was ... how shall I put it? Not above board.”
Slowly and deliberately, I slid my handkerchief across the table. “Unwrap it carefully,” I advised.
“A ruby and a black diamond,” I told him as he raised a questioning eyebrow.
My cousin whistled through his teeth. “And they weren’t taken?”
“Obviously not as they’re still here.” A pause, “Really, CC! There are times I wonder how you rose through the ranks of the police with those powers of deduction.”
He ignored me and continued eating.
“Bit strange don’t you think?” He said through mouthfuls of sausage. “Why’d she have them?”
“Perhaps payment for services rendered.”
CC cut another piece of sausage. “Surely a girl of that class would want cut stones – or cash.”
“Not her services CC! Her employer’s! For heaven’s sake, must I tell you everything?” I sighed heavily. “There are some businessmen, cousin, who prefer to deal in uncut gems.”
Silence fell. I drank my coffee; CC demolished his plate. Sampson wove his way unobtrusively between the two of us, clearing debris, refilling cups.
“And you don’t know who that is?” CC picked up the conversation as though there’d been no break.
I shook my head. “Not for certain... but I think their owner knows the jewels are in my possession.” I waved a hand in a manner reminiscent of a Roman emperor. “No don’t ask CC; I have no intention of divulging my secrets. Not yet at any rate.”
CC appeared ready to argue, but manners and the re-entrance of Sampson prevented it.
As my valet reached me, he stopped and slapped a letter on the table. “This just arrived, Major. It’s from Miss Clarke. I thought you should read it.”
I frowned. “My valet has a lady friend, cousin,” I explained to hide my confusion. She was a single date; a mine for information. Why would she be corresponding with my valet?
“The earl is in fine jest today, Colonel. He is referring to my rendezvous with an under-housemaid, when we were in Brighton.”
CC took out his handkerchief.
“You are correct to look shocked, cousin! Terrible, isn’t it? You can’t get the staff these days!”
Sampson looked pained. “On the earl’s insistence, I took the young lady for a drink!” he sniffed his disapproval.
“Pretty?” Not known for his sense of humour, I assumed CC’s question was serious.
“Not that you’d notice, Sir Charles. But she’s well-read and an excellent conversationalist. If a little too prim for my liking.”
I tore myself away from the sight of CC’s handkerchief paused mid-flight, so to speak. “You didn’t say that when we were in Brighton, Sergeant?”
“I didn’t get the opportunity, my lord!” Sampson retorted tartly. “You were a little worse for wear and not in the mood for listening, as I recall.”
A smile touched the corners of CC’s eyes.
“I’m asking now, William Sampson,” I said, refusing to be reminded of my behaviour on my return to the hotel suite. “Why d’you say she’s a little too prim?”
Sampson scratched his nose as he considered the question. “Did I say that, my lord? Let me amend it slightly: she is a very ... well put together young lady – if a little on the Rubenesque side.”
“But ... you like them busty, if memory serves?”
Sampson sighed. “Indeed, my lord,” he agreed in a repressive tone. “But I also like them to take their gloves off.”
CC, having put his unused handkerchief away, decided to intervene before I said something completely beyond the pale. “She might have a birth defect, like Anne Boleyn. You know, a sixth finger.”
“Possible, Colonel. I didn’t think of that.” A pause. “That might indeed account for her reticence about such things.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Anyways, my lord, the letter is worth reading; especially the first paragraph.”
“Thank you. And I’m sorry for my behaviour in Brighton. I had no idea the Prince would insist I drank so much. I have no way to thank you.”
“It is unnecessary, my lord. No doubt you will do the same for me one day.” Sampson retired with an air of superiority.
I watched him leave and, refusing to be drawn by CC’s obvious interest, changed the subject. “So, tell me, now you’ve investigated more closely; what do you make of the Ma Char girl?”
“Symington! Why’d you need me to tell you about the Ma Char girl?” CC exclaimed, his coffee cup suspended mid-air. “I mean the Carrington place is immediately opposite. Go behold her yourself.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You know I don’t dabble with the lower classes, as witnessed by the fact Sampson took Miss Clarke out,” I reminded him darkly. “And you’ve seen more of her than I, given you watched her for quite some time before coming up this morning. So, do I tell Violet to wear mourning weeds for your marriage?”
CC laughed, but the sound barely escaped his mouth, leaving me to wonder if there were more to Violet’s extended sojourn in the country than the usual. There were bags under his eyes, a stray cotton thread on the collar of his shirt, and – unusually – a slight crease in the front of CC’s suit. “Has Violet taken Mrs Bamber?”
The handkerchief appeared once more as CC nodded. “Bamber’s in a right state!” he said with a false laugh. “Still, Mrs B’s a wonder with the children. And we both know the children come first.”
My head exploded in a cacophony of alarm bells. If Mrs B was with Violet, things between my cousin and his wife weren’t great. Yet only a fool would draw attention to such things.
“For goodness sake, CC, before you get sidetracked into that respectable, domestic world you live in, tell me about the girl.”
CC blew his nose. “It’s a bit strange,�
� he said returning the hankie to his pocket. “I mean the Carrington’s might have more money than sense, but there are no skeletons in their closet to warrant staff from Ma Char’s being moved in to run the place.”
“Really?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, come off it, Symington. Neither’s mad, a bully, or can’t be trusted to keep their hands to themselves. None of their staff have been dismissed for theft or fraud. Actually ...” And here CC stopped and gave a half despairing, half encouraging look only a father uses. “You’re more of a candidate for a visit from the staff from the Aldwych based agency. I mean, all those affronted husbands determined to keep an eye on errant wives! Ma would be a millionaire just from business involving you!”
“Even my cousin maligns me!” I declared mournfully.
He warmed to his theme. “You have a wife, a mistress, and a roving eye. You are a prime candidate for Ma's cleaning girls to wade in and ruin your lothario lifestyle, with their constant, brooding presence.”
He had me there. “I have a wife,” I agreed. “A Serena; and – until no doubt they bury me six feet under – a very definite eye for a pretty girl.” My cousin continued to stare in the way only a father of girls can at a man with my reputation. “But I take your point. Compared to me the Carrington’s are as dull as ditchwater and tremendously respectable. But still waters run deep. Maybe there’s something going on none of us know about, some dreadful secret.” I warmed to my theme, “An old aunt locked in a turret; a body buried under the floorboards! Or an opium den in their front room!”
Unable to help myself, I became more melodramatic as the list went on; twirling an imaginary moustache and pacing the room like an actor from the music hall.
“I’m missing something, aren’t I, Sergeant?” CC said to my valet who entered the room sometime during my performance.
“You are indeed,” I stated mid-moustache twirl. “But rather than wait for me to enlighten you, go over to the window. She’ll still be there, if the activities of the last few days are anything to go by. Tell me, what do you notice?”