The Gentleman on Pennyfield Street

by C. G Oster

  There just weren't any upsides to any of this. It was just awful.

  Something really bothered her, though and she couldn't put her finger on why. There was a niggle in the back of her mind that refused to budge—or reveal what the problem was. But she'd had this feeling before. Something was wrong—off, somehow.

  Pennyfield Street was on her way home and she walked down it, seeing the pile of rubble that had once been the inflicted house. No one was there searching through the rubble anymore. It was deserted now, another ghost of a building. Glass still crunched under her feet, but there was glass all over the city now.

  A woman was standing with her arms crossed on the opposing side of the street, staring at the rubble. She wore a flowered dress and her hair was covered by a shawl. Her windows had been blown out like many of the others on the street.

  "I had one fall on my street too," Dory said. "Middle of the street though. Sent a tree through my kitchen wall."

  "Few streets don't have one or two. Don't know what we're to find in the mornings as we crawl out of the earth like moles. If they'd just gone to the shelter, they would be breathing today. Had problems with her nerves that woman. Why I reckon they stayed in their house." The woman clearly didn't approve of her neighbor. "Still, can't wish that on anyone. Little Madga there and all. I saw them pull 'em out."

  "And the guest. I understand they had a guest."

  "They never had guests. Kept to themselves those two. He'd have a pint at the pub every once in a while, but never one for socializing. So if you tell me they had a guest, I won't believe it. Don't know who that man was; I've never seen him before."

  Dory frowned. She would have assumed it was an uncle or something. "He was an elderly man from what I saw."

  "Bodies turn up everywhere, don't they?" the woman said and turned around to pick up her broom and start sweeping around the tinkling glass. "Who knows if there'll be anyone left standing once those Germans are done."

  With a nod, Dory kept walking. Maybe the man had simply been someone passing by who needed to find shelter, but why hadn't he gone to a proper shelter. It could still be that he was a visito the neighbors had never seen before. It certainly wasn't out of the realm of possibility.

  Still, something really bothered her, even as she tried to put it out of her mind. There was a reply letter to write to Captain Ridley. In a way, she had no idea what to say. Would he want to know about the hardship they had back here? Unlikely. The material distributed by the Ministry of Information suggested it was their duty to keep up the spirits of the fighting men. That they didn't need to know that their families were being bombed to smithereens back home.

  Then there was the whole affair about Ridley returning to London that set butterflies flaring in her stomach. Would he actually want to see her? He had indicated so. They weren't officially anything to each other, so it was hard to know what to think—or what to write.

  That man hadn’t been covered in dust like the other bodies dragged out of the house on Pennyfield Street. How could that be? Had he simply happened to be protected from the dust—as if wrapped in a curtain? Was that even a possibility?

  Her frown followed her all the way home, where Kevin was out in the yard, furiously sawing at the branches of the tree. His jacket was draped over the fence and Vera carried the branches out to the mortar wall.

  "Won't have to use the door at all soon. We can simply walk straight into the kitchen," Vera said, checking her perfectly curled light brown hair in her small pocket mirror. "You took your time."

  "I guess I walked slowly."

  As per usual, Betsy had gone to see her mother, who worried about them being up there on that roof every night, facing the Germans head-on.

  "Kevin, may I ask? The bodies that are pulled out of fallen buildings, are they always covered in dust."

  "More or less. Sometimes they're completely charred."

  That was not the answer she was looking for. "So if someone was pulled out relatively clean."

  "Not even the live ones come out clean," he said, setting to task on another branch.

  Dory didn't press, getting the feeling she wasn't going to get the answer she sought. Or maybe she had the answer she sought and it didn't make sense. "I'm gonna go up and rest," she said instead and Vera smiled at her.

  "You look tired. You're not getting gloomy, are you? I think you need a night of dancing."

  The last thing she wanted was a night of dancing with over-eager strangers. What she wanted was to know why this man had been pulled out of the rubble looking like a collapsing building didn't leave a mark on him. Other than blood. There had been blood on his face and forehead. She only just recalled this.

  The letter to Ridley would have to wait until that afternoon. Right now, too much was weighing on her mind. Shutting herself away in her room, she poured water into her washing bowl and wiped her down her arms and face. Using the rag, she wiped her hair as well. There was so much dust in the city. Every wind gust picked it up and spread it across the entire city. At times, it felt as if they would never be clean again.

  "Mail," Betsy said at the door and Dory went to open it. It was a light blue envelope, which meant it was from Lady Pettifer.

  "Thanks," Dory said and closed the door again, ripping the top open with her finger as she lay down on the bed and crossed her ankles. A five-pound note was included, which was completely unnecessary, but Lady Pettifer did insist on giving her money every now and again.

  Dear Dory,

  I figured you could use this. I tried to send you some jam, but the postman wouldn't take it, completely getting above himself, the odious man. I hope to find you well. We are drowning in chickens here. A troop full of girls have come to manage them all. Sweet girls, who have set up their quarters in the stables. We don't need them now as the army commandeered all our horses. Poor things. My brother's horses are too temperamental for warfare, but they wouldn't listen.

  I do hope you will come see me when you can. We haven't seen Livinia nor Vivian for a good while. My brother worries about both of them, especially Vivian who is in France. Livinia is being overseen by Lord Corrington, so that gives some assurance. He is a sensible man and will ensure she doesn't do anything unwise. We worry about Vivian, though. By far unsuited for war, I say, but no one listens to me. He has been promoted as captain, I understand, although he says nothing about where he is or what he is doing. The boy was never good at writing. Always too caught up with his own life to assure the people who worry for him.

  We read of the nightly bombings and I do worry for you, too. The things you must see. If only this wretched war would end.

  Yours Sincerely,

  Lady Constance Pettifer

  It was strange to think Vivian was now the same rank as Ridley. They were such different men. Ridley with his seriousness and competence, and Vivian being the exact opposite. She and Vivian had had a contentious relationship since the moment they'd met. He never quite approved of her—her presence or even more generally.

  The last she had seen him, he'd gone to rescue his notorious mother from a sanitorium in Switzerland as the Nazis were skirting the borders. Lady Wallisford was apparently ensconced in the Bahamas, or was it Bermuda? Exiled, but never truly facing justice for murdering poor Nora Sands.

  Dory wondered if she should tell Lady Pettifer about Ridley's letter and him mentioning that he might call on her when he returned to London. The lady respected the man and would likely be happy with this development, but then she would probably assume things were there that weren't. No doubt, she would be planning their wedding at the mere mention that he wrote to her.

  Chapter 6

  FEELING GROGGY, Dory opened her eyes and saw the sunshine streaming through the window. It was a nice day, it turned out. Maybe even a warm late autumn day. That would be nice for a change. Just a moment to sit in the sun. It sounded heavenly.

  Then other thoughts encroached. The man in Pennyfield Street. Something was still very wrong and sh
e couldn't simply ignore it. The Ministry of Information's publications kept saying one needed to keep watch and report anything that was out of the ordinary. What and to whom, though?

  Could she go to the constabulary and say something? There was nothing to report though, other than that she had a bad feeling about this body. They would dismiss her without second thought. The insistence that he should be more dusty was probably not of much interest, especially as they didn't know who he was or why he was there. Just some man who turned out to be less dusty than he should be. Hardly damning evidence that something might be wrong.

  Perhaps she could lay this at ease if she could find out who the man was. For all she knew, they knew exactly who he was, even if the neighbor hadn't. He could very well have had his papers in his pocket and his presence in Pennyfield Street made perfect sense.

  Still, feeling a bit groggy, which she tended to when she woke up in the afternoon, she made her way downstairs where Betsy was sitting by the kitchen table, the hole in the wall more noticeable now that the tree branches were cut back.

  "Morning," Betsy said. "There's a fried egg in the pan if you want it."

  "Lovely," Dory said and walked over to take the bread out of the tin.

  "What about this sun? We might have a clear night tonight."

  "Let's hope so."

  "This weather will do our tomatoes good." None of them were terribly good gardeners. Their plants only managed to produce one or two vegetables before consistently dying off. They didn't thrive in the soil and none of them could determine why. Poplar wasn't filled with skilled gardeners, although Lady Pettifer could probably determine what the soil needed.

  With the spatula, Dory placed the fried egg on top of her bread slice, her stomach rumbling with the smell of food. As she sat down at the table, Betsy finished her meal. "As I recall, you know someone who works in the rescue brigade."

  "Frank Waters. He lives just down the road at thirty-eight. Nice bloke. Not sure why they wouldn't accept him into the forces. He's kept that quiet. Why do you ask?"

  "Something is bothering me about that house on Pennyfield Street."

  "Something always bothers you. You have the most suspicious mind. Nefarious plots everywhere."

  "I do not," Dory said, surprised that Betsy would say such a thing.

  "Weren't you saying you chased down some murderer in France?"

  "I said a body was found at a party I went to. And maybe I did make some inquiries about it, but I don't suspect plots everywhere."

  "Really, so you don't expect something untoward at that house in Pennyfield?"

  That was hard to argue, because something was off about that man being there. "I'm just curious."

  "Curiosity killed the cat."

  "Nonsense. I have never seen a cat killed by curiosity. Motorcars mostly." Dory felt a little put out by the accusation. How could she be blamed for noticing strange things? But then Betsy had been a little snippy ever since Dory had mentioned her life in France, accusing her of having high and mighty associations. That little look of disapproval appeared every time a letter arrived from Lady Pettifer. "Technically, I think most of them die of old age."

  After taking her plate to the sink, Betsy left, leaving Dory to stare out at the street, where Mrs. Mellison from next door waved at her through the hole. "Lovely weather today," she said.

  Dory smiled and waved back, not exactly thrilled that the whole street could see them having their meals, but compared to many, they were lucky to have a roof over their heads and most of their walls.

  Finishing her breakfast, she placed the plate in the sink and left the house in search of Frank Waters. Down the street at number thirty-eight, a woman was sweeping dust out of the front door. Looking up, she gave an absent smile.

  "Is this where Frank Waters lives?"

  "What do you want with my Frank?"

  "I was hoping he could answer some questions for me about his work."

  "I suppose you can catch him in the back shining his shoes. Best to go around. There's a gate around the corner"

  Following the directions, she found a gate and reached through the hole to the locking mechanism. A man was sitting on a chair in his white undershirt, his suspenders undone at his sides. "Mr. Waters?" Dory asked.

  "Who's asking?" he said gruffly. Dory could see he would be good at rescue, being a strong and muscular man. It was surprising he hadn't been accepted into the forces. Physically there looked nothing wrong with him. A cigarette sat between his lips and bobbed up and down as he spoke.

  "Dory Sparks. I'm one of the ATS girls. I was hoping to find someone who worked on that collapsed building on Pennyfield Street."

  Putting his boot down, he leaned back and considered her. "Four bodies. What concern is it of yours?"

  "I was curious about the man you pulled out. When I happened to speak to the neighbor, she couldn't account for who he was, and said they never had visitors."

  "Where are you from? Posh accent if I ever heard one."

  Apparently he had never heard one, because hers was nowhere near posh. "Not really. I'm from Swanley."

  "Went there once."

  "So about this man. Do you know if he was identified?"

  "We don't identify them, only pull them out."

  "Then who does?"

  "That would be the morgue."

  "And where was he taken?"

  "Royal London, I think. Most of them get taken there. A few to the Tower. Most people don't know they have a morgue there. Where all the river floaters get taken. On a bad night, the Royal gets full and we have to go to the Tower with the spillover."

  More information than Dory needed to know. She'd never heard anyone speak so casually about bodies, but supposed it was something you became desensitized to if you dealt with them all day. "I see," she said. There was something unnerving about this man and his great, powerful hands, seemingly strangling the little shoe polishing cloth.

  "As I passed, I noticed he hadn't much dust on him. Is that usual?"

  "Nosy one, aren't you?"

  Keep focus on the question rather than me, she wanted to say, but she only smiled, hoping the silence would urge him to speak. "It's not normal," he finally said. “Normally they're beige from head to toe. Not a scrap of skin or color seen on them. Bloody messes most of the time. Gets everywhere that dust. So does the blood. You can’t really see the blood until you touch it. Covered in dust too, but it sticks like glue when you have it on you."

  Dory could imagine that woman sweeping inside having to wash that out of his clothes on a daily basis. At least the carbon rubbing off the filaments were easy to wash out. "Thank you for your time," she said. "I won't disturb you further."

  His reply was only a grumble, but she caught the word 'hoity' in there. Some in this part of London were not all that welcoming to people who didn't grow up here. On the whole, they were the most friendly, generous people one could meet, but not all of them. Frank Waters left her with a distinct wariness and she was glad to be away from him. Maybe the armed forces had denied him because of sheer uneasiness.

  At least she had a second opinion telling her that it was unusual for a body to be so clean. At this point, she hadn't asked herself what she thought that meant. From what she could see, it could only be that he hadn't been in the house when it had fallen down, but at this point, she had little faith in her own deliberations. She was, by far, not an expert on these things.

  For a moment, she wondered if she should write to DI Ridley—Captain Ridley, she reminded herself—but maybe she should mention all this to Lady Pettifer.

  If people thought her curious, they hadn't met Lady Pettifer, who loved going over every detail. Dory would write her that night if indeed it stayed clear. For now, though, she might walk over to the Royal London Hospital to inquire about the body. Perhaps the mystery had been cleared up already.

  Chapter 7

  AN EXPANSE OF YELLOWISH brick stretched before Dory as she stared up at the Royal London Hos
pital. A clock at the center told her she only had an hour before she needed to head off. Even on a clear day, they had to be ready in case it clouded over and the Luftwaffe followed.

  A man knocked into her in his rush to get into the hospital, not even turning to apologize. It seemed everyone was in a hurry. Dory followed the man who had disappeared from sight into a hall leading to a landing with a jumble of metal staircases. All the walls were painted white. Everyone was in a hurry, except the people sitting around in wheelchairs with one part or another bandaged.

  Most of the people here couldn't get home, she realized, or had no home to go to. Still, they were the lucky ones.

  "Excuse me," she said to a harried-looking nurse in her white uniform. Her nurses cap turned as her head did, and she checked the small timepiece pinned to her chest. "I'm seeking the morgue."

  "Through those doors on the left and down the stairs, as far as they'll go. Then left and another right." Before saying anything more, she was gone and Dory was left to wonder which of the two sets of doors on the left she meant. Well, at least it narrowed it down to two.

  Dory picked the door on the immediate left and was met with an unpleasant chemical smell. There were beds in the corridor with patients. Most were quiet and Dory felt as if she was disturbing them by walking past. A mother hovered over a small lump in a bed, cooing and whispering.

  A staircase came into view and she slipped down them, meeting a grieving pair in black. It seemed she was going to the right place. A sign for the morgue appeared at the bottom with a hand pointing to the right, leading to a dingy waiting room filled with people. Three people were working behind a desk with frantic efficiency.

  "Delaney," one of them called and a pair came forward from the awaiting mass.

  "Can I help you?" one of the nurses demanded.

  "I am here about a body."