“What happened to her?”
“Homer didn’t say. Maybe she’s still on that island, hoping he’ll come back. But I think she must have moved on by now.”
“Good for her,” said Gwen. “We should send her a flyer. We should be able to find a good husband for a raft-building nymph.”
CHAPTER 5
By the time Iris reached her flat, the sniffles she had obtained in Colindale had escalated into a full-blown cold. She closed the door and put the kettle on, then hauled out a hankie and blew her nose loudly enough to summon the dead.
As the echoes faded and her ears returned to a partially clogged state, she became aware of a ringing that wasn’t from an internal source. She staggered over to her telephone and picked up the handset.
“Hello,” she said.
“’Allo, Mary Elizabeth McTague,” came a man’s voice.
She grinned in spite of her misery.
“’Allo, Archie,” she replied, slipping into an East End accent.
“Now, no need to put on the act with me,” he said.
“You called me Mary Elizabeth McTague,” she said. “That’s ’ow she talks, innit?”
“Yeah, let me talk to Sparks, then.”
“Sparks here, Archie,” said Iris, switching to her own voice. “How are you?”
“I find myself free for the evening,” he said. “I was wondering if you’d be interested in stepping out.”
“I’d love to,” said Iris, “but my sinuses are under siege. I wouldn’t be much for company, and I suspect I look all red and blotchy.”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” he said. “’Ave you eaten yet?”
“I have not. I just came back from the library.”
“Sounds exhausting. But I’m a slow reader.”
“Now who’s putting on an act? How is it that you’re free tonight, an established gang-leader like yourself? Shouldn’t you be out leading the gang? Pilfering and pillaging and the like?”
“The benefit of leading the gang is I get to delegate the larcenies to my ’umble employees,” said Archie. “So if I feel like taking the night off, ’oos to say otherwise?”
“Far be it from me to criticise,” said Iris. “Unfortunately, I must confine myself to quarters and inhale steam. Thanks for thinking of me.”
“You know I’m a sucker for damsels in distress,” said Archie. “You ’old tight, old girl. Our planes are in the air.”
“Planes? What planes?” asked Iris, but the connection had been severed.
She removed her makeup, then put a fresh kettle on. She picked up her copy of The Fifth Man, the latest Manning Coles book, kicked her shoes off, and curled up on the couch. She knew Cyril Coles, who was half the writing team behind the books, from his work for British Intelligence during the war. The books were nonsensical espionage adventures, but light reading with enough genuine pieces of spycraft scattered throughout to keep her from dismissing them out of hand. She had just got to a minor revelation when there was a knock on her door.
“Planes,” she said to herself.
She got up and padded over to peer through the peephole. A grinning Archie stood in the hallway.
“What on earth?” she exclaimed as she opened the door.
“’Ome remedies,” he said, holding up a pair of paper bags. “May I come in?”
“You may,” she said, stepping aside.
Archie Spelling had a prizefighter’s build and a heartbreaker’s face, marred only by a nose that had been broken by both left-and right-handed punches, if its topography was anything to go by. Iris never asked what happened to the providers of the punches. Knowing Archie, he either bought them a drink after or left them in bloody piles in some alleyway. Possibly both.
There was something odd about him, she thought. Wait—
“You’re wearing a suit!” she said.
“I always wear a suit,” he said.
“No, a normal suit. You’re not spivved up.”
Indeed, he was clad in a light gray three-piece, with a narrow tie and a proper fedora. She was used to seeing him in something loud, with chalk stripes and a kipper tie. But now he could pass for a banker, albeit one with a history of getting his nose broken.
“Are you disappointed?” he asked, spinning like a model.
“I don’t know,” she said, looking at him critically. “You’ve shrunk to life size all of a sudden.”
“I’m undercover,” he said, putting his bags down on the tea table. “Can’t stroll into Marylebone looking like I do in Shadwell. Every copper in the vicinity would be dogging me ’eels. So, remedy number one: Chicken curry, still ’ot, direct from Brick Lane.”
“Which place?”
“The ’industani one on the corner.”
“Ah. They’re decent.”
“This should clear those sinuses in no time,” he said, pulling out a pair of cardboard containers.
“And remedy number two?” she asked, fetching a pair of soup bowls, spoons, and a ladle from her cupboard.
“The old reliable,” he said, producing a bottle of whisky from the second bag with a magician’s flourish.
“My goodness, did you raid your personal supplies for little old me?” she asked.
“My supplies ’ave been previously raided from elsewhere, so no loss,” he said, pouring some into her tea. “It’s for a good cause. Feed a cold, intoxicate a fever, I always say.”
“You’re a regular Florence Nightingale,” she said, sitting on her sofa and ladling the curry into the bowls. “Will you be having a hot toddy as well, or will you take yours neat?”
“Neat.”
She found a clean tumbler, took the bottle, and poured him a healthy dose.
“You’re a generous bartender,” he observed.
“For medicinal purposes,” she said, raising her now loaded teacup. “I don’t want to infect my guardian angel.”
He clinked his tumbler against her cup. She gulped the tea down gratefully, the combination soothing the back of her throat.
“Let me administer the one-two punch,” she said, digging into the curry.
The aromatics attacked her sinuses on two fronts, and she felt the drainage begin.
“Lovely,” she sighed when they were done. “Thank you, Archie.”
“You’re very welcome. ’Ow goes matchmaking with the nephew?”
“Bernie is a quiet, well-behaved young man,” said Iris. “It’s hard to believe he’s related to you.”
“’E takes after me sister’s ’usband,” he said. “She married up. It’s the quiet that does ’im in. ’E needs a noisy woman to rouse ’im.”
“And you’ve just given me an idea,” said Iris. “We’ve recently acquired a very noisy woman. Maybe opposites will attract.”
“’Ow noisy?”
“On a scale of one to BOOM!, she breaks the scale,” said Iris.
“Worth doing just to ’ear ’im tell the story after. Funny, I thought you’d be setting ’im up with one of them bookish types. You know, one of them smart girls what never gave me the time of day.”
“What do you think I am?” she said, holding up her book.
“You are a puzzle,” he said. “University girl like you, and ’ere I am, a proud graduate of the School of ’Ard Knocks. It’s a wonder that we found each other.”
“How did you know where to find me, by the way?” she asked, looking at him sternly. “I’ve never given you my address, and the flat and telephone are not under my name. Did you follow me?”
“I ’ave the feeling that if I ’ad, you would ’ave made me in no time,” Archie laughed. “No, I did it the old-fashioned way. After our last night out, I got you a cab.”
“Ah, the light dawns. He was no ordinary cabdriver.”
“’E was a very ordinary cabdriver and, as such, eminently susceptible to noting your address in exchange for a small remuneration.”
“And you did this to check me out?”
“After you played me so neatly, I wanted to
make sure you weren’t in no long game,” admitted Archie.
“And what did you find out?”
“You’ve lived behind doors I can’t open,” said Archie, sipping his whisky. “I take it you ’ad an interesting war.” He tapped the Coles book on the table. “You like spies, eh?” he said.
“I was a file clerk, nothing more,” she said.
“Right,” he replied. “A file clerk what infiltrates criminal enterprises and solves murders in ’er spare time.”
“A girl needs a hobby,” she said. “Anyhow, that was a one-time thing for a client.”
“Well, you did right by me in the end,” he said. “Now, what’s the story with the bloke who ’as the lease for this place?”
“An ex,” said Iris. “Let’s call him by his rightful name. We were lovers.”
“Married fellow.”
“Yes.”
“Makes no difference to me,” said Archie, shrugging.
“It did enough for you to check me out. As well as my ex.”
“Now, ’e’s a puzzle and an ’alf,” said Archie. “Flat’s not under ’is real name, and I can’t find out nothing about ’im.”
“I recommend you don’t try,” said Iris. “The search will draw unnecessary attention.”
“Yeah, I thought that might be the case,” said Archie. “But ’e’s definitely an ex?”
“The bridges are burned, the earth salted.”
“Good,” said Archie.
“Are you intending to make advances?” asked Iris, giving him a sidelong glance.
“What? To a woman in your condition? I don’t want to catch your bloody cold.”
Iris burst into laughter.
“Oh dear, I’ve got toddy up my nose,” she gasped, grabbing her handkerchief.
“That should ’elp clear it,” said Archie.
“So, now that you’ve vetted me, what are you going to do?” she asked.
“It’s an interesting situation,” said Archie, suddenly serious. “I like you, Sparks. I’m used to East End climbers and the odd upper-class girl out on a lark, but you’re different. The problem is my profession. It’s not one that lends itself to stability, if you know what I mean.”
“I do, Archie,” said Iris. “Stability has never been one of my strengths, either.”
“So, the ’ouse in the country and the quiet life aren’t likely to be in the cards for either of us, are they?”
“What if you got out of the game?”
“Still ’ave to eat, dun’ I? And I’m surprisingly unqualified to make an honest living.”
“I’m sure a man of your talents could figure something out.”
“Not as easy as you think, once you get a few marks on your chit,” said Archie. “Any’ow, this is all supposing you’d be along for the ride. We’ve ’ad two dates, far from the madding crowd.”
“Three, now,” said Iris, holding up her cup in salute.
“You count this as a date?”
“I do. One of the better ones I’ve had, to tell the truth.”
“Is that a fact?” asked Archie, pleased. “Well, in any case, it’s too early to be talking like this. But I like talking like this, and I ain’t never talked like this to anyone before. So, what I wanted to know was if the road is clear.”
“The road is clear, Archie. Where it goes—”
“Nobody knows,” he concluded. “But we could drive along for a while and see what’s around the next bend.”
“Yes,” said Iris. “I think we could.”
“Well, then my work ’ere is done,” said Archie, rising to his feet and putting on his fedora. “I’d kiss you good night, but you’re all red and blotchy.”
She got to her feet, pulled his head down to her level, and kissed his cheek.
“I’m not wearing lipstick,” she said, “so you don’t need to wipe anything off. Unless it’s germs.”
“I wash me face with carbolic soap at least every other week,” he said. “Feel better, Sparks. I’ll ring you up when larceny season ’its another lull.”
“Good night, Archie.”
She closed the door after him, then listened to his footsteps recede down the hallway.
I’m dating a gangster, she thought. That can only go well.
* * *
Gwen was on the telephone when Iris arrived at the office the next morning.
“And after that?” she was saying, jotting something down on her notepad. “I see. No, I know where that is. I’ve taken Little Ronnie to the museum. That was Greenwich eight-three-nine-nine? Got it. You’ve been a tremendous help, Squiffy. Thanks so much, and we’ll see you at Melissa’s wedding. Goodbye.”
“‘Squiffy’?” asked Iris as she sat behind her desk.
Her cold was improving, thanks to Archie’s prescriptions. She had taken another dose of the bottled one before coming to work.
“That’s Rear Admiral Squiffy to you,” said Gwen. “People started calling him Squiffy because he spent so much time at sea that he’d walk like a drunk man for the first few days back until he got his land legs again.”
“And what did Rear Admiral Squiffy tell you?”
“That the captain of the Calypso when they rescued Prince Andrea was one Herbert Buchanan-Wollaston.”
“I can almost hear you pronouncing the hyphen. And is Captain Buchanan-Wollaston still alive?”
“Alive, a vice admiral since thirty-two, retired and living in Greenwich near the National Maritime Museum. He should be in his late sixties by now.”
“How long did he command the Calypso?”
“That’s an interesting thing. He took command in September of twenty-one, and was replaced in December of twenty-two.”
“December of twenty-two? Right after delivering the prince and family to Brindisi?”
“Apparently so.”
“What ship did he go to next?”
“No ship at all for four years. A series of cushy desk jobs and training courses.”
“That is interesting,” said Iris.
“Yes,” said Gwen. “The two principal actors involved in spiriting the family away from danger were both rewarded with safer lives.”
“Almost as if they were bought off,” said Iris. “That’s speculation, of course. Very good. How do you want to play this?”
“‘Play’?”
“Well, we can’t just barge in on a naval officer and ask about an operation from twenty-four years in the past. Let’s see.” She rummaged through her bag. “Aha!” she said, pulling out a card and holding it up. “My press pass. We could pretend to be reporters—”
“Is that real?” asked Gwen.
“Real enough,” said Iris. “Jimmy made it for me.”
“Jimmy the Scribe? I thought he had gone straight.”
“This was from during the war. I can’t—”
“Don’t bother,” said Gwen. “But it’s the sort of thing a suspicious man might check on. We would do better sticking closer to our actual selves.”
“Fine,” said Iris. “You pretend to be you, only more so. Give me that number, please.”
She dialed it, then waited. A muffled male voice answered.
“Hello,” she said in a crisp, efficient tone. “Vice Admiral Buchanan-Wollaston, please. It is? Please hold for Mrs. Bainbridge.” She paused for a moment, then handed the receiver to Gwen.
“Hello, Vice Admiral,” said Gwen. “This is Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge, Lord Bainbridge’s daughter-in-law. Yes, that Lord Bainbridge. Perhaps you’ve fired a few of his shells during your career. You have? And they exploded properly? I’ll be very sure to tell him. He’ll be so pleased. Now, Vice Admiral, to the purpose. My ladies club is putting together a series of lectures on the subject of naval warfare during the Great War. Yes, we still call it that. Yes, they are quite the bloodthirsty bunch, especially around teatime. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind my dropping by to speak to you about the possibility. How is this afternoon? Say, three thirty? Or should I say seven bells?
Splendid. My secretary will accompany me, if that would be suitable. Very good. We shall see you then. Good day.”
She hung up.
“You realise you’ve doomed us to a detailed recounting of every naval battle he was in,” complained Iris.
“We can’t just jump into the royal rescue,” said Gwen.
“We could try,” said Iris. “Fine, I’ll pretend to look interested. Feigning interest in men is the best way to get them to talk. Is he married?”
“I believe so.”
“Then it will be safe for you to flirt with him. That’s the other best way of getting men to talk.”
“You’re better at flirting.”
“I am but a mere secretary,” said Iris meekly. “It would not be my place to do so, Mum.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” sighed Gwen. “Fine. I’ll flirt, you feign, and together we’ll find out what we can. Shall we get some work done until then?”
“Let’s. So, I have a proposal for Miss Ack-Ack.”
“We must not give our clients nicknames, remember? Although I do like that one. Who is your candidate?”
“Bernie Alderton.”
“Archie’s nephew,” said Gwen, considering. “Interesting. A quiet egg and a noisy bird. She’d consider him a challenge. I like it. Well done.”
“Thank you.”
“How are things with Archie?”
“Fine,” said Iris noncommittally.
“Only fine? You haven’t added ‘dandy’ to the mix yet?”
“Fine and dandy, sugar candy,” said Iris, picking up her pile of letters and opening them.
“And that’s all you are going to say?”
“All right, you’ve bullied it out of me!” said Iris, slamming her correspondence down on the desk. “We have secretly married. I am going to run half the gang. And I am with child.”
“My God, Iris!” exclaimed Gwen in horror.
“Triplets, in fact,” continued Iris. “The middle one seems to be the brute, but it’s difficult to sort out. They do keep moving about in there. It’s like a shell game.”
“Beast.”
“Busybody.”
“I’m concerned. Can’t you see that?”
“It’s only been three dates.”
A Royal Affair Page 8