by Shéa MacLeod
“In a manner of speaking,” I said. “We have a couple more stops, if you don’t mind.”
“No worries, Lady O. Let me fire up Ole Bessy and we’ll be on our way. Where to?”
“Old Bessie?” I mouthed to my aunt who shrugged.
“If it makes him happy,” she whispered loud enough he probably heard her. In an even louder voice, she gave him directions. “And step on it, lad. The game’s afoot.”
Clearly Aunt Butty had been reading too much detective fiction again.
Chapter 4
Our first stop was at the tenant house where Johnny Brice lived. His landlady answered the door in a swirl of fried-onion-scented steam. She wore a severe black gown and bore an even more severe expression. Her black hair was highlighted with bits of silver like tinsel and done up in a tight bun. She was the exact opposite of Mrs. Mullins other than her generous proportions. “Whatchu want?” she asked in a heavy Italian accent, thick eyebrows lowering ominously.
“Hello, my name is Lady Lucas,” Aunt Butty said in her poshest accent. “This is my niece, Lady Rample. And you are?”
“Signora Linnetti.” She propped her hands on her wide hips. “Why you wanna know?”
“We would like to speak to Johnny Brice, per favore, Signora. It is most important,” Aunt Butty said.
“Why you want him?”
“He’s an old family friend,” I lied through my teeth.
“Huh.” I don’t think she bought it. “He not here. He working.”
“Oh?” I widened my eyes. “Is he still working up at the Pavilion?”
“No. He working down at tobacco shop. You go there.” And she slammed the door in our faces.
“Well!” Aunt Butty huffed.
“Wouldn’t want to tangle with her in a dark alley,” I muttered.
“Do you know of a nearby tobacconist’s, Simon?” Aunt Butty asked as we climbed back in the car.
“One just down the street, milady,” Simon said cheerfully. “You want I should stop there?”
“Yes, please.”
We’d hardly caught our breath before he was pulling up in front of the tobacconists. It was a narrow building crammed in between a greengrocer and a second-hand shop. A faded sign above the door read “Duber and Sons, Tobacconist.” The dusty window was plastered with flyers and advertisements for every sort of tobacco, pipe accessory, and cigarette paper one could imagine.
“You sure you want to go in there?” Simon asked. “Looks a mite dodgy to me.”
“Unfortunately, Simon, we must go where the clues take us,” I said. “And in this instance, they’re taking us here.”
He sighed heavily and climbed out of the car and opened the door for us. “Well, then, I’ll be going with you.”
“Unnecessary,” Aunt Butty insisted. “We’ll be fine on our own.”
“No doubt, milady, but Mr. Singh. He’d have my head.”
There was no arguing with that, so we didn’t grumble as Simon held the door to the tobacconists for us.
As we stepped inside, we were hit with a wall of sweet tobacco and heavy musk. The room was dim and oppressive, a high counter ringing off most of the room with all the wares safely behind it. Perched on a stool next to the register was a young man of perhaps twenty-six or seven.
He’d flaxen hair, already thinning on top, and a sallow complexion—no doubt from too much time spent indoors. His frame was almost fragile, shoulders slightly hunched as he studied a magazine.
“Johnny Brice?” Aunt Butty asked without further ado.
He glanced up and upon seeing two ladies and their uniformed chauffeur in his shop, struggled off the stool. “Yes, madam. May I help you?” He gave her a boyish smile as he limped closer to the counter.
“We were just up at the palace and spoke to the groundskeeper there. Mrs. Moore. She thought perhaps you could help us,” Aunt Butty said.
A frown line creased his otherwise smooth brow. “Well, unless you want tobacco, I don’t know how I can help you. If it’s anything to do with the shop, you gotta talk to Mr. Duber. He’s the owner.”
“And is he here today?” I asked, not wanting to be interrupted by Johnny’s boss.
“No madam. He’s not.”
“It’s ‘my lady,’” Simon muttered.
Johnny blushed right to the roots of his hair. “Er, sorry. My lady.”
I waved off his apologies. “What about ‘and sons?’”
“Isn’t any. See, Mr. Duber himself was the ‘and sons.’ Or one of them anyway. His brother was killed in the Great War, and he inherited the shop. Kept the name because he thinks it sounds important. Had to hire the likes of me to help out, though.” He shook his head. “So none around who can help I’m afraid.”
“That’s perfectly all right,” Aunt Butty said soothingly. “It’s you we came to see. We want to know about your time at the palace during the Great War. When it was a hospital.”
His eyes widened a fraction. “Really? Why? That was ever so long ago.”
“You see,” I told him, “we are trying to find an old friend. We thought maybe you’d remember her.”
“Her?” He blushed a little. “Like a nurse you mean?”
“How’d you know we were talkin’ about a nurse?” Simon asked suspiciously.
Johnny’s flush deepened. “They were pretty much the only women that worked up there. So I-I just assumed.”
“You’re spot on, Johnny,” I said soothingly, shooting Simon a glare for upsetting the young man. “We’re looking for a nurse named Emily Pearson.”
He went a little pale. “Oh, I’m sorry, miss—”
Simon cleared his throat.
“I mean, my lady.” Johnny sank down on his stool as if his legs could no longer hold him. “Didn’t you hear?”
“Hear what?” I asked, playing dumb. Aunt Butty put on a matching expression of innocence.
“Well, miss—my lady—Nurse Emily, she was real sweet, see. Nice to everybody, even folks like me that emptied slop pails and scrubbed surgery floors and the like. Always kind to the patients even though some folks didn’t like ‘em because they were from India and all. But the reason I remember so clear is one night, she vanished.”
“Vanished?” Aunt Butty gasped as if she’d never heard of such a thing. She deserved an award for playacting.
“Yes, my lady. Just up and vanished in the middle of the night. Whole hospital was abuzz. She was never a minute late and one day she doesn’t show? Her and her things gone from her flat? I didn’t buy it, but the police said there was nothin’ they could do and we all just went on about our business.”
“Ghastly,” Aunt Butty said, clutching her throat. I thought she was laying it on a bit thick.
“And then it wasn’t but two days later, they found her drowned in the pond up there next to the Royal Pavilion. Like something right out of a play by that Shakespeare fellow.”
He meant Ophelia, of course, who’d drown herself after being rejected by Hamlet. Yes, I bore her name. However, I’d never had even the slightest inclination toward offing myself over a man. “So she killed herself then?”
He shrugged. “Maybe yes. Maybe no. Police said it was suicide. Some said it was an accident.”
“What do you say?” Simon asked.
He shrugged again. “Not my place. But I will say this. That Nurse Emily, I don’t reckon she was the sort to go and off herself. Not like that. She was afraid of water, see. I heard her brother drowned when he was a baby. Something like that. So I don’t see how it was an accident, either. She kept well away from that pond. Everyone knew about it.”
Everyone knew about Emily’s fear of water. How very interesting.
“Do you know where Nurse Emily came from?” Aunt Butty asked. “Where her people are?”
“Might do,” he admitted.
“Johnny.” I pulled a pad of paper and a pencil from my handbag. “Write it down, please. Everything you know.”
As he did, I thought I should also ask
about Dorothy Evans.
“Sorry, miss. My lady. Don’t rightly remember her. Will this be alright?” He handed me a piece of paper with an address awkwardly scrawled on it.
“That’ll do just fine.”
BY THE TIME WE EXITED Duber and Sons Tobacconist, it was chucking down rain again. Deep puddles had formed across the pavement and cars sent up sheets of water as they zipped by. We decided to forgo speaking to Mildred Pierce and instead return to the hotel and its warm fires and hot toddies.
While Aunt Butty went straight to her room, I stopped in the lobby to use the telephone. John Goode, the man I’d seen with Molly Malloy was sitting on a bench across from the booth reading a newspaper. He gave me a funny look as I walked past, but I figured it was due to my bedraggled state and put it from my mind.
Leaving the door to the booth open a crack as I dislike small spaces, I placed a call to Maddie with instructions to get herself down to Brighton with my overnight case. I’d no doubt we were in for a few more days stay.
“Is Hale in?” I asked her once she’d taken down my list of items to bring.
“No milady. He left for practice an hour ago, but I’ll be sure and send him a note.”
“Thank you, Maddie.” I didn’t let on my disappointment. I’d just have to ring him later.
Next, I rang Louise Pennyfather. Aunt Butty had said she knew a lot of people in Brighton. Perhaps she knew something about Emily Pearson’s death. At the very least, she’d have been sure to have heard gossip about it.
Louise herself picked up. I recognized her stentorian tones immediately.
“Louise, it’s Ophelia,” I said without preamble. Louise was not the sort of person who enjoyed small talk.
“Oh, Ophelia, how are you? I’ve been meaning to ring. Your aunt and I have been talking about putting on a seance. What do you think?”
“Sounds marvelous. Listen, Aunt Butty says you’re quite familiar with Brighton society.”
“Such as it is,” Louise confirmed.
“I’m trying to find out more about the death of a young woman who worked as a nurse at the Indian Hospital during the war.” I quickly told her what I knew about Emily.
“Beastly business,” Louise said when I’d finished catching her up. “Poor young thing. Quite pretty she was, too. From a decent, middle class family. Nothing special, mind, but solid country folk. The backbone of England.”
“But do you know anything about what happened?”
“Only what one reads in the papers. However, I do have a friend who may be able to help.”
“Oh, that would be marvelous, Louise. Thank you.”
“His name is Dominic Parlance, and he’s one of those theater people. You know the type.” The sound of flipping pages rattled through the line.
“Ah, sure. Yes.” I had no idea what she meant.
“Here’s his number. Are you ready?” She rattled off a telephone number which I quickly jotted down in my little notebook. “He knows everyone who is anyone and anything there is to know about everything. If he can’t help you, I doubt anyone can.”
“Thank you, darling.” But she’d already hung up.
I let myself out of the booth, shutting it neatly behind me before striding to the front desk to check for messages. There were none, so I made my way to the lift, meaning to freshen up as best I could before joining Aunt Butty for supper.
The lift slid open and I was about to step into the car when something pressed into the small of my back. It felt rather like the barrel of a gun!
“Don’t make a sound,” a gravelly voice said in my ear. “Come with me, or I’ll shoot you dead.”
Chapter 5
Deciding cooperation was the better part of virtue, I obliged the gentleman currently pressing a gun into the small of my back as he frog-marched me across the lobby toward the street. The desk clerk looked up, startled, as we strode past.
“My lady, is everything all right?”
“Peachy!” I called back. “Tell my aunt I’m not the least bit hungry and am going for a stroll along the promenade.”
There. That ought to do it. For one, Aunt Butty has never known me to not be hungry. For another, the day I went voluntarily for exercise was the day Hell froze over. She’d know something was wrong immediately. Though what she’d do about it was anyone’s guess. Knowing Aunt Butty, it could be anything from calling the police—unlikely—to hiring circus clowns—more likely.
My escort and I pushed through the front door, dodged raindrops down the steps, and hurried into a waiting car. Long and black with its motor running. That was all I could tell. The driver wore a cheap suit with a fedora pulled low—although it did not cover the narrow scar along his cheek—and an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. My companion was a near carbon copy, minus the cigarette and scar and plus a revolver. Marvelous. I did so enjoy being kidnapped. It was getting to be a regular habit with me.
The car roared off down the street, nearly bowling over a priest who was strolling along minding his own business. The tires screeched as we turned a corner, headed up the hill, and through neighborhoods of narrow Victorian brick townhouses which eventually gave way to leafier streets lined with newer single-family homes.
Finally, as the sun such as it was slid low upon the horizon, we emerged into the countryside. Green pastures stretched out on either side of the road, dotted with fleecy white sheep and brown, speckled cows. The traffic thinned out to nothing and the houses were few and far between. Help of any kind grew increasingly unlikely. I might have gripped the door handle a little tighter than necessary.
By the time we pulled onto a rutted drive, I was feeling some trepidation. This was a little more than the usual kidnap and threaten situation. We were a long way from anything vaguely resembling civilization and fear crept like icy fingers up my spine. It was all I could do to force it back and put on a brave face.
The car bounced and jarred its way up the drive, finally emerging onto a wide, graveled parking area over which loomed a gothic manor that was enough to strike fear into the hearts of the most steadfast. I was absolutely certain Count Dracula was in residence.
The man with the gun clambered out and gave a little wave of the weapon. Not being entirely stupid, I got out, too. Together, we climbed the shallow steps to the door. My captor rapped once with a large gargoyle doorknocker, and the door swung open to reveal the sour visage of a middle-aged woman to whom life had no doubt handed a great deal of lemons. I could have told her said lemons made for excellent lemon drops, but it seemed unwise to mention it.
“Is he in?” my captor asked in his gravelly voice.
“He’ll be down shortly. You can wait in the library.” She turned and strode away, sensible heels clacking on the parquet floor.
We stepped over the threshold and followed. The driver was apparently staying with the car.
The library was as expected. Rows upon rows of dark shelving lined the walls, each holding neat rows of leather-bound books, all precisely the same size and color. It was not a reader’s library like my own at home—stuffed to the gills with works of fiction covered in bright colors—but the sort of place someone had paid a lot of money to create so they would come across as intelligent and well read.
A fire burned low in the grate, adding some measure of warmth to the seating area which consisted of a lovely-but-inexpensive Chinese rug, two brown leather club chairs, and a brown velvet settee. It would have been a perfect place for relaxing except for the fact I was not exactly there by choice.
“Stay here,” Gravel Voice grunted before stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him. There was a distinctive click. Wonderful. I was locked in.
Since I wasn’t getting out that way, I tried the French doors which faced out to the garden. They were bolted. The sort which require keys to get out, and while I may technically know how to pick locks, it takes a great deal of time and concentration. Well, there was nothing for it. I’d have to bide my time and see what arose.
In the meantime, I wasn’t about to sit idly by and await my fate. The minute I got the chance, I was going to head for the hills. Unfortunately, I’d little idea where I was or how to get back to Brighton save on the main road, which seemed a poor choice as I doubted my captors would let me go willingly.
A large cabinet was set against one wall. I opened it to reveal rows of liquor bottles including one exceptionally expensive bottle of scotch. I figured since the owner of the bottle had me kidnapped, he owed me. Beside which, I could stand to steady my nerves. Pulling out the stopper, I took a slug. Very nice. Returning the bottle after a second swallow, I took stock of the rest of the room.
There was a large rosewood desk positioned between the two windows, facing the door. No telephone, alas, though there was a writing tray next to on which was a neat stack of unopened envelopes. I picked up the top one. It was addressed to Mr. R. Haigh. A quick peek through the rest of the stack revealed more envelopes addressed to the same person and postmarked from various places around the globe. No doubt today’s post.
So whoever this Mr. R. Haigh was, he was responsible for my kidnapping. What I wanted to know was, why? As far as I remembered, I’d never met anyone called Haigh. And I’d certainly never been to this house or even spent much time in this part of the country. Could it possibly have something to do with our investigation? But if so, how? No one but Aunt Butty, myself, Mr. Singh, and our other compatriots knew about it. Perhaps one of the people we’d questioned was in on it! Although that didn’t seem likely.
I carefully replaced the envelopes and turned my attention to the desk drawers, hoping for weapon of some kind—a letter opener, perhaps—a map, or some other indication of how close the nearest village was. From there I could ring the hotel and get Simon to collect me. If I could get out of here.
Oddly, there was no weapon to be had. Clearly someone had gone through the room and removed all the sharp objects. What I found in the very bottom drawer was a copy of the ABC Railway Guide. Which wouldn’t have done me any good except that some helpful person had dogeared one of the pages and circled one of the stations in red: Falmer. It must be the closest station. I vaguely remembered seeing it on the way in. Question was, how far away was I from Falmer?