by C. G Oster
Dressing and washing, she made her way downstairs to the kitchen, where Vera was eating a boiled egg with toasted bread cut into pieces.
"Fruitful morning?" Vera said, looking up from her breakfast. "I can see that by your eyes."
Dory sat down at the table. "There was something not right about the house next to the river, on Byron Street. I don't know what, but something was off. I'm off to his place of employment now to see if he's there. He could be and I could be completely wrong about all this, and then I'll be back to square one. The neighbor said Mr. Jones hadn't been seen for a while."
"That doesn't necessarily mean anything suspicious," said Vera. "We don't really notice our neighbors all the time, do we? It could simply be that this man hadn't seen him for a while."
Dory had to admit this was true, but she wouldn't know if her feeling was correct until she went to his place of employment, somewhere near Monument, which was, unfortunately, quite far away and it would take her at least an hour to get there, if not more. "I better go if I'm to be back by tonight."
"Don't be late," Vera said sternly. "Although I think we're going to have another clear night tonight."
Dory chewed her lip. There was a chance she might not get back in time. "Could you bring that extra blanket from my bed when you go? I don't want to cart it over half of London."
With a sigh, Vera gave Dory a chiding look. "Fine, but you owe me some manual labor in return. Betsy wants us to help in her mother's garden."
With a smile, and stealing a sliver of Vera's toast, Dory made her way out of the house and ran down the street towards the bus station. It took ten minutes before the bus heading west came along and she hopped on the back, handing over a shilling to the conductor.
The bus was quite unoccupied this time of day. Dory took a seat and watched the city go by as they drove westward. Most of the people coming on board were women and children with their shopping. Everyone seemed a little brighter for the quiet nights where most had slept in their own beds. It seemed such a luxury these days.
The busy streets around Monument were initially confusing when Dory got off the bus. It was an intersection of several streets and the great, big spire pierced the sky. Turning around, Dory searched for the insurer where Mr. Jones apparently worked. There were no visible signs on buildings so it was hard to find, leaving her to look inside quite a few buildings before she found the offices of Pollock and Altman on the second floor of the beige stone building with columns along the facade.
A staircase led her up and her footsteps steps echoed off the walls, until she reached the door with gold lettering on the glass, stating the name of Pollock and Altman Insurers.
The door led to the quiet office, decorated in dark wooden paneling, giving it a somber feel. A young man in a suit sat at a desk, and behind him were three clocks set at different times and a black Bakelite telephone right next to him.
"May I help you?" the young man said, looking down his nose at her even from a sitting position. Quite a feat. He must be well practiced.
"I was hoping to see Mr. Jones," Dory replied.
The young man's eyebrows rose. "I'm afraid he doesn't work here anymore," and it was Dory's turn to look surprised.
"Oh," she said, not quite knowing what to say now. "I had been told he works here. Has it been long since he left?"
"He retired about a year ago. He does drop in quite often. One of those who can't quite let go. He’s still good friends with Mr. Pollock."
"Do you recall the last time he was here? I'm with the ATS, and we're doing a wellness check," she said with her most innocent-looking smile. "I'm having a bit of trouble reaching him, you see." The young man considered her and then picked up the receiver of the telephone. "Let me try calling," he said and spoke to the operator. He gave Mr. Jones' number, which apparently he knew by heart and the operator connected him forward. Dory could hear the subsequent ringing. "Hello this is Mr. Jones' residence," a young woman said. "How may I help you?
"This is Mr. Stevens from Pollock and Altman. May I speak to Mr. Jones, please?"
Dory didn't hear the rest of what was said as only mumbling reached her ears, but Mr. Stevens face remained impassive throughout, even as he hung up the receiver.
"It seems Mr. Jones is not at home," he said.
"Is that unusual?" Dory asked. "Does he leave London often?"
"No, never. He could simply be out."
"Yes, of course. When was the last time you heard from him in any capacity?" Dory asked
"Well, I sent him a bank draft about two weeks ago," he said, checking a book in front of him.
"But you didn't actually hear from him?"
There was a frown on the young man's face now and he was concerned. "I suppose it's been longer than that since I've actually seen or heard from him. Do you think something's happened to him? He has staff. Surely they will let us know if something untoward has happened. You don't think his house was bombed, do you? He lives in Limehouse."
"The house is intact, but he seems unavailable when I call. I'm not saying anything is wrong," Dory said with a smile. "It is just a wellness check—necessary in times like these. It could be that he is simply hard to reach. I will go and check at his house again. I'm sure there's nothing wrong. I will have him get in touch when I see him."
In truth, she didn't feel as confident as she tried to sound, but there was no point spreading panic. Ridley had taught her that. It was an irresponsible thing to spread panic when there was no real evidence for concern. "I'm sure everything is fine," Dory repeated. "And he will be in touch in a few days. Before I go, though, could you please ask if anyone in the office has seen him? It would be useful to know if someone else has heard from him in the last two weeks."
"Of course," the young men said, rising sharply and disappearing behind a dark wooden door, leaving Dory on her own in what really was a dark and gloomy room. She wouldn't like to spend the entire day in there like that young man seemed to do. The clocks on the wall ticked as she waited, disturbingly not in unison. It took a few moments, but the young man eventually returned. "It seems he came to dinner at Mr. Altman's house about a month ago."
"I see," Dory said and smiled again, trying to be reassuring. "Often people leave town with the recent bombardment we've had. It could well be that he's gone to stay with some distant relation."
The look on the young man's face wasn't convinced and that was concerning. If the people who knew him the most considered it unlikely he would leave town to go stay with relations, then maybe it was unlikely that he had. This visit to Mr. Jones' workplace certainly hadn't alleviated her concerns. There was something definitely off about all this. It was the same feeling she'd had about Baron Drecsay in Nice. Something was off, but she didn't know why.
With a farewell, Dory left the office and walked down the noisy stairs to the street below. Did she have enough evidence to go to the police? What could she tell them? That the people at the company he was retired from hadn’t seen him for a while? That was hardly convincing. She needed to know more, needed something more concrete.
What she needed to do was go back and insist on seeing Mr. Jones, perhaps make an appointment for when they could meet. She had to think up some excuse. It would hardly do to tell the maids that he was suspected of being murdered. Well, if it came down to it, maybe she needed to fess up about why she was there. It could be that this was something they all laughed about when Mr. Jones made an appearance.
She would have to go back again tomorrow and talk to the maid, perhaps the housekeeper and relay that there were concerns about him not being seen. If that didn't succeed, she didn't know what to do.
Chapter 23
THE NEXT MORNING, Dory was in front of Mr. Jones' house as soon as she could be. It was barely past dawn and none of the men along the row of houses had come out for their morning commute yet.
It was so cold there was even ice floating on the blackness of the river. Dory's hands were shoved inside her jacket and her breath conden
sed. If she hadn't been in such a hurry, she would have had a cup of soup, but she wanted to be there at the earliest opportunity.
Slowly, the sun started to rise, and the biting cold started to alleviate. Dory kept watch as men slowly started to emerge, bracing themselves against the brisk morning. All the while, no one came out of Mr. Jones' house, although she saw when the staff drew back the curtains.
Being retired, she didn't expect Mr. Jones to come out like the other men heading to work, but the maid hadn’t said he was away either. The first time she'd come, the maid had eluded he was in the house, the second, he'd been out—which both could be true. On the surface, there was nothing out of the ordinary—just a feeling that sat in the pit of her stomach.
When an hour had passed, she decided it wasn't worth waiting anymore. It was too early to call, but she could insist. Most pensioners she knew rose early.
Marching across the street, Dory used the brass doorknocker and waited. Finally, the young maid came to the door and smiled tightly. "Hello," she said.
Dory smiled in return. "I need to see Mr. Jones."
"He is unavailable," the young lady said and was about to close the door.
"I'm afraid it is necessary."
The girl didn't seem to know what to do. She was perhaps around eighteen, with a white maid's cap on her head.
"We are doing a wellness check on Mr. Jones. I am from the ATS."
"Please wait," the girl said and almost closed the door. Dory could hear whispers behind the door before it opened again, and the older woman stood there, the housekeeper. A slim woman with a narrow face, the constant disapproval of a housekeeper etched into the lines on her face. "I am sorry, Mr. Jones' is unavailable," the woman said sternly.
"There have been some concerns raised," Dory said.
"I can assure you that there is no need for concern, but Mr. Jones is unavailable to all visitors." With that, she firmly closed the door. Dory tried knocking again, but the door remained resolutely shut. The net curtains twitched at one point, but they were otherwise ignoring her.
Walking the steps, Dory looked up at the façade of the house. It had three stories, what had to be Mr. Jones' rooms on the second floor and the staff quarters on the third. There was nothing to be seen from the outside of the house. All looked still and calm.
At this point, Dory didn't know what to do. She couldn't very well barge through the door. For one, they weren't opening it for her, and she wasn't strong enough. Secondarily, she didn't really have a mandate to do so. The ATS did not do wellness checks on the elderly in the area. There was only so far she could take this ruse. And the police? Was it so uncommon that staff were given instructions to bar intruders? Not really. If Lord Wallisford did it, no one would bat an eyelid. Mr. Jones wasn't Lord Wallisford, but he was within his right to ask for privacy.
The concern for him was real, though. Mr. Stevens from Pollock and Altman was concerned. Perhaps the staff would be more amenable to letting Mr. Stevens in, but then they hadn't been all that forthcoming on the telephone the previous day.
With her hands on her hips, Dory tried to think of what to do. With this one, she had run out of options. She had to go to the police. Hopefully, the concern of Pollock and Altman would be enough to drive them to concern for Mr. Jones' wellbeing. Dory didn't know if this was enough. On the surface it really wasn't.
*
The Limehouse police station was a square brick building with a large archway in front from the time horses and carriages were used. The inside was painted a light green and a desk sergeant stood in a dark uniform.
Dory hadn't actually been in a police station since she had been called to divulge everything she knew about Baron Drecsay and his demise.
The large man with a red beard looked up, eyeing her as she walked in. Nerves welled up in her stomach and she didn't quite know what to say. The man said nothing as she approached. "I have concerns about one of your residents," she said. Could she go into the whole story behind her concerns, or get away without mentioning it. They would likely be just as receptive to her meddling as Captain Ridley was. "It seems no one has seen this man for quite some weeks, and his staff keep saying he is unavailable."
The sergeant considered her for a moment. He was a really imposing man. Perhaps that was a good trait in a desk sergeant, Dory wondered.
"And who is this man?"
"Mr. Jones of number sixteen Byron Street."
"Could simply be that the man likes his privacy."
"I told his staff there were concerns and I was there doing a wellfare check."
The man’s eyes were piercing and Dory looked away. "And now you come to us?"
"And now I have done what I can, and must beseech you to see if this man is alive and well."
Reluctantly grabbing a piece of paper, he scribbled on it. "I'll speak to one of the bobbies and have him knock on the door."
Relief washed over Dory and she smiled. "Wonderful."
"Since when do the ATS run around and make wellfare checks?"
"Only when concern has been raised."
"How?"
Dory thought for a moment about how to say it. "In relation to some unaccounted for victims over in Poplar," she finally admitted. The man's eyebrows rose and Dory shrugged. It was the truth. Nothing more could be said. "If he is alive and well, then we'll know it wasn't him. If you need me, send a note to my address." Grabbing another piece of paper, he wrote down her address.
"Not to the ATS, then?" the man asked.
"The chances are less that it will reach me in a timely fashion." Dory looked up into his eyes and knew he understood that this had nothing to do with official ATS business. "We all owe it to the families to do our best to identify victims," she said.
"Aye," he agreed and put the note to side. "Not really an ATS job, though."
"Seems a job no one has time for." His eyebrows rose as if she'd just insulted him, and maybe she just had.
"We'll send you a note if anything comes of it."
That wasn't perhaps as assuring as she'd hoped. What she wanted was for him to say they would rush over there and barge in right then and there. But to this man, it was a low priority. It would perhaps be left to whichever bobby was responsible for that street. And everyone knew they were notoriously short-staffed at the moment. People literally got away with murder.
"Thank you, I would much appreciate it."
With that, she left, feeling the sergeant's eyes on her back. In her experience, policemen could be tricky when you were looking into something that was technically their job. Short-staffed and stretched thin, they still thought they were being imposed on if one tried to help. Even Ridley, when she had first met him had discouraged her, until it had gotten to the point where he was being frozen out.
Returning home, Dory went to bed. She was going to shortchange herself a little on sleep, but that couldn't be helped. Hopefully, the police had the matter in hand, so in a sense, she slept well.
Dropping her heavy boots on the floor by her bed, her feet ached and she remembered that she hadn't eaten anything. Her stomach gnawed with hunger, but she was too tired to go downstairs and eat. Besides, no one had gone to the store, so there was probably nothing down in the kitchen.
Would Ridley be proud of her now? Perhaps she would write to him and say she had finally handed the matter over to the police.
*
Her hopes were dashed, though, because no note came the next day, or the day after that. For once, Dory had time on her hands, sitting in their damaged kitchen, waiting for a note to be sent from the police.
"Perhaps you need to go check to see what happened," Vera suggested. "They could have misplaced your address. Or simply forgotten to tell you."
"Or they didn't go check on Mr. Jones at all," Betsy said. "They can be lazy those coppers, let me tell you. Good for nothing most of the time. Now get up. Mother wants that greenhouse raised."
They all knew that Betsy's brother had been scavenging glass
panes from all over the area. Not that Dory could blame them. A long winter stretched before them and any vegetables they could grow would help feed the family.
Dory also didn't want to write to Lady Pettifer and admit that the police had simply ignored her, which is what she suspected had happened. It was embarrassing. Perhaps even more so if Lady Pettifer decided to ask her friend, the mother of the Commissioner of Police, to inquire. Lady Pettifer tended to be a broadsword when a scalpel was needed, but she was like that. They dealt with things on their own level, which was grossly out of line with the things Dory needed. It would be like setting off a bomb to kill a fly. As well-meaning as Lady Pettifer was, she didn't always understand nuance.
Equally, she didn't want to write to Ridley and say that she had been ignored, because he would probably say there wasn't sufficient cause for concern. A man not in his house when London was being bombed every night was hard to justify as the prelude to a crime.
Chapter 24
"MAIL CAME EARLY," Betsy said as they got home the next morning. It had been another clear night, and they had frozen stiff on the roof. "Looks like it's from your brother. Tom it says on the back."
"What?" Her brother Tom didn't write to her. He was only eight.
Dory took the letter. Sure enough, it was the uneven writing of an eight-year-old, the stamp crooked. Dory smiled at the sight of it. What was Tom doing writing her?
Shoving her finger in through the fold, she ripped it open and read. It talked about the rabbit he had.
Oh and mum broke her arm and is in hospital.
"What?" Dory said out loud.
"What's the matter?"
"My mother broke her arm."
"How?"
Dory turned the letter over, but there was nothing else. "It doesn't say."
"Is she alright?"
Well, how was Dory supposed to know that, she thought ungenerously. They had no phone, so it wasn't as if she could call. The postmaster did, but if her mother had broken her arm, she might not be able to come to the phone. If… "I have to go see if she is alright."