by C. G Oster
"No, he was on a pension." In light of what had happened to Mr. Jones, her initial fear was that someone was trying to steal his pension, but that was nothing but an unfounded accusation. Still, it had to be considered. Money was an undeniable motive for murder.
"Did he have any relations?"
"I don't believe so. He seemed a very solitary man. A widower. There was a daughter, but she died in childbirth some years back." Turns out this man knew quite a bit about Mr. Dellow's background.
"And he was interested in the news?" she asked, concluding so if he religiously read the papers. Not everyone was interested in the news about the world outside of their community.
"Of course he was," the man stated sharply. "Our country is at war, in case you hadn't noticed."
"Believe me, I have. Anything in particular related to the war he was interested in?"
"Just generally. Some people like to keep themselves informed. Of late, though, he was interested in the municipal organization related to the war. He felt some things were managed poorly." Many would say that was an understatement.
"Anything in particular?"
"Not that he mentioned."
With that, the man gave a shrug and walked away. There was nothing else here for her, Dory concluded, so she walked outside and found a bench. The cold of it seeped through her clothes, but she wanted to record what she had just learnt in her notebook, and it was summed up as: on a pension, liked reading the papers, and complained about municipal organization.
That described just about every sixty-year-old man in the country. It was nothing to go on. In fact, she had nothing to go on at all. Back to square one.
This sleuthing thing wasn't always easy or simple. Sometimes there was just nothing, and it was incredibly frustrating.
Perhaps she could speak to the warden. It was the only thing she could think of, and also wait until this evening and knock on the doors of the neighbors before the air siren wailed. They would perhaps know something more, maybe something that would eliminate him as the body found.
For once she had time on her hands and nothing to do. There really wasn't much to do. She didn't really have any friends here, and they would all be working besides. The shops were just about bare and the museums were all closed. Maybe she should return home and read a book like she always wished she could. Now was her chance—she'd just gotten out of the habit.
Determining to do so, she walked home, finding Betsy and Vera huddled over the stove. "Okay, slowly," Betsy said.
"What are you doing?" Dory asked, walking into the kitchen, giving a wave to Mrs. Mellison through the hole in the wall.
"Making lipstick. Mum had this old beeswax candle, so we're making lipstick."
"Kevin found a small pot of glycerin," Vera continued. "It's looking really good." There were barrels of glycerin at the munitions factory Dory had worked at.
"What are you using for color?"
"Beetroots. We squeezed the life out of a couple of them, and it's making quite a nice color. My friend Sally said she used charcoal and made a serviceable mascara. Thought we'd try it after. God knows there's enough charcoal around."
"Good idea," Dory said a little unconvinced, but what was the harm in trying? The girls both shifted over from the stove to huddling over the bench as they poured out the concoction they'd just made.
"It's actually a really nice color."
"Hot, hot," Betsy said. "How'd the sleuthing go?"
"Nowhere. I've got to find some of the neighbors to talk to, but they're not home during the day and I'll likely only have a few minutes before they all rush off to the shelter."
"So go talk to them at the shelter," Vera said, making it sound like the most natural conclusion. Why hadn't Dory thought of that? Of course, she would have a captive audience all night. Most of them would go to the same shelter. Granted, she didn't yet know where, but that was something she could find out.
"That is brilliant," Dory finally admitted. "I guess I am spending the night there."
"Me and Kevin are going dancing."
"Now there is a surprise," Dory said flatly.
"Only for an hour, though, as he has to start a shift. Couldn't get a second night off. I think he's going to propose soon. He'd better. I'm not hanging on as some goodtime girl. Come the start of next year, I want a ring on my finger."
"I'm sure he will," Betsy assured.
"I am going to go upstairs and read," Dory said, to the surprised expressions of the girls. They weren't readers at the best of times, whereas Dory wanted to escape somewhere where there wasn't a war. Maybe she would re-read that old gothic novel she had about a Governess stuck with a remote family out on the moors. She loved that book and could happily immerse herself in that world for a while, where monsters turned out to be shadows, and not flying machines made in Germany.
Lying down on her bed, she pulled her blanket over her and picked up the book lying on the bottom shelf of her nightstand. It had dust on it, so it had been a while.
The next moment she looked up, the colors of dusk were painted all over the sky. Hours had passed and she hadn't noticed. In a rush, she threw the blanket off herself and rushed downstairs. Both Vera and Betsy were gone and the house was darkening. Grabbing her bag, she left and ran toward Mr. Dellow's area.
In the end, she simply followed a woman and a toddler to a shelter, where people from the neighborhood streamed into one large room in the basement of a factory. The people in the factory were mandated to work throughout the raids. Dory wasn't sure what they produced, but it was clearly vital.
Dory looked around. There had to be close to two hundred people in there, and not a single face she recognized. The shuffling to get positioned died down. There were a few resourceful people who hung hammocks between pipes running along the walls, while most people had blankets or cots on the floor, amiably chatting. The place smelled like oil and metal, but it wasn't nearly as claustrophobic as the last one she had been in.
Clearly she wasn't as prepared as some, who brought their entire family supper with them. Or bringing suitcases with clothes, books and other entertainments. One man had even brought a record player and the dulcet tones of a trumpet echoed through the place, drowning out the drone of the machinery above their heads.
It felt a little like intruding, going to an unknown shelter.
"Find a seat, girl," a man said and Dory sat down at the nearest vacant spot.
"Do you know Frank Dellow?" she asked the man. "I was looking for him when the siren went off. He's on Hurst Street."
"Can't say that I do. New to the area."
Why was it that the people new to the area that were the most helpful?
"I think Mrs. Simpson lives near Hurst Street, though. There's no person around here she don't know about," he said and she blinked at him for a moment until he remembered to point the woman out.
Dory nodded gratefully and shifted over to the woman he had indicated. A larger woman in her mid-forties, wearing a black coat and a polka dot hat.
"Hi, I'm Dory Sparks. I have been told you know Mr. Dellow."
"Well, I'm not sure I know him. Keeps himself to himself, that one."
"I am looking for him and haven't been able to get hold of him. He's not here, is he?"
"No, he never comes to the shelter."
"Have you seen him recently?"
"Now that you mention it, I think it's been a while. His house is fine, though. Walked past there earlier. I think I would have noticed if something had happened to it."
"Do you think there is a chance he has left London?"
"Can't see it. Has lived here every day of his life. Where would he go?"
"A relation, maybe."
"No. He was a foundling at the orphanage. Probably the by-blow of some tart. It was a rough neighborhood back then. No one cares about such things nowadays, but back then, there was quite a stigma attached to the foundlings. Conceived in sin, my old gran used to say. Nice enough man unless you get on the
wrong side of him. Has a temper when he sees fit to."
"Anything he had a temper about lately?"
"Now I have heard, but I can't be sure about the truth, that he had some dispute with his neighbor some while back. And the publican at the Ruby Rose. Now he's a nasty fellow you don't want to cross. Wife left him. She used to turn up black and blue at times, makeup so heavy it caught flies. Good on her for taking off, I say. Now he's married to some young thing and will do the same to her."
"And Mr. Dellow had issue with him?"
"Love, I think Mr. Dellow was the type to have issue with most people. At heart, though, a decent man."
"Thank you. You have been wonderfully helpful."
The woman smiled with pride at the compliment, and Dory tried to make her cramped position more comfortable.
"Apparently bunk beds are being built for us, but they haven't turned up yet," the woman said. "The authorities never do anything around here unless you push 'em."
Chapter 29
THERE WERE QUITE a few new things that Dory had to record in her notebook, and a real suspect too—this publican at the Ruby Rose, which seemed a bit of a bruiser according to the telling. It was a clear lead and she would have to look into him. For a moment, she wondered if he was there in the shelter somewhere.
Well, if Mr. Dellow didn't shelter at night, perhaps this was the one time she would catch him at home. It wouldn't take long to rush over there and see if he was home. If not, then she could perhaps confirm that this man was missing. It would be enough to go to the police with.
Rising from her seat, Dory moved toward the exit.
"Where do you think you're going?" a warden said. "There's bombs falling out there."
Dory brought out her ATS identification. "There's always bombs falling out there. I'm afraid I must attend to something."
Grudgingly the man looked at her before he opened the door, as though she couldn't be trusted to make decisions for herself. Granted, she was putting herself at risk, but it wasn't this man's prerogative to say she couldn't.
A bomb fell nearby as soon as the door was closed behind her. Down from the stairwell, she could see the sparks of the shrapnel, even if the force of the explosion was absorbed by the sandbags. Bloody Germans.
Dory set off at a run toward Mr. Dellow's house. The streets were deserted and in the distance was the glow of fire, silhouetting the skyline. A truck rumbled down one of the side streets.
Unlike a blackout house where windows were covered, Mr. Dellow's house was just dark. No one came when she knocked and the door was firmly locked. It was dark next door as well, the neighbor she had initially spoken to, but she couldn't remember exactly what they'd said—if they had simply confirmed that he lived there or had said he was still around. Her poor record keeping was causing her problems yet again.
His house was at the end of a row, so most likely, it was this neighbor he had quarreled with, although that couldn't be taken for granted.
Walking around the outside of the house, she made her way into his backyard. Into a cobblestone area that had an old washing room and the outhouse. No one answered when she knocked there either, and for a moment, she wondered if she should break in. That would be highly illegal. There were patrols looking for looters and they probably wouldn't listen to her excuse.
Ridley would break in if he had reasonable suspicion that something untoward had happened to this man. Dory, however, didn't have that right. It was outside of her mandate to break into the house, even if she was so very curious as to what she would find out.
Looking around, she pulled out her flashlight and shone it into the house. Nothing was out of place in there. Her light swung over a plate of food and she swung back. It was half eaten and looked old. The potatoes had shrunken in on themselves.
Maybe she didn't need to break in. Dellow's deserted meal was evidence that he hadn't been there for a while.
Nothing else was out of place. He was a neat man, so it was unlikely he would simply forget to clear a plate of food for days on end. This was the first tangible proof that he really was missing, and she hadn't broken into his house to discover it.
Stepping back, she bumped into something and almost fell over. It was a washing basin, but there was darkness inside. Dory shone her light on it. Something was burnt. Leaning closer, she looked at it. It was just soot and char, but there were a few pieces of unburnt material and it looked like a rag rug, the multi-colored kind people made from old rags.
Who would burn a rug and why? And in a washing basin. The answer just appeared in her mind. It had been what he'd been carried in to Pennyfield Street, and then it had been burnt, because with his head wound, it had to have blood on it. The murderer had burnt it here after disposing of the body.
"Turn out that light, Frank!" a man said sharply from the other side of the brick wall. It was six feet tall, so she couldn't see him, but the flashlight must have reflected off the building. "Or I'll give you a fine." It had to be the warden responsible for this area. They were usually very happy to hand out fines for breaking the blackout.
"Not Frank," Dory replied.
"I don't care who you are. Turn it out all the same."
"It doesn't matter how black we are, the Germans still seem to find us with remarkable precision," Dory said tartly.
"We're to have complete blackout," the man stated.
"Fine, fine," Dory said and turned the light out.
"What you doing skulking around Frank's anyway?"
"I'm looking for him. I think something has happened to him."
"What do you mean something has happened to him?"
She could hear him coming around to the gate at the back and Dory shone her light at him. An older man with gray hair. "Put that down. And who are you?"
"Dory Sparks. ATS. No one has seen Frank Dellow, and his half-eaten food is decaying on his table. There's this burnt rug in here that I think was used to dispose of him."
"What are you talking about, girl?" the man said, his warden sleeve around his arm.
"I've been coming here for days. He's not answering. No one has seen him, and I think his body was found over on Pennyfield Street."
"That's miles away."
The man passed her and went to knock on the door. "Frank!" he yelled, but as before, nothing happened. "Hold this," he said handing over his bag, and went to break in the door with his shoulder, doing what Dory had been too squeamish to do, fearing she would get into trouble. This man obviously had no such fear.
It took a few tries, but the door gave suddenly. The air was stale inside. "Frank," the warden kept yelling.
This was the murder scene—Dory just knew it. He'd been having his supper and he'd been called away, probably by someone at the front door—someone he'd let in.
The warden walked up the narrow stairs to the second floor, and Dory followed as the man walked to the front room. A cage of steel and wood surrounded the bed, which was where Mr. Dellow slept at night. Dory had heard that people built such cages, but she wasn't sure if it would save someone if the house came down. It certainly wouldn't save anyone from the blast of a bomb. Some, though, preferred their beds at all costs.
The drone of planes passed over them and Dory held her breath, hoping nothing fell directly on her. The warden was staring up at the ceiling as if he could see through it. "He's not here," the warden said. "And you think he was found somewhere over on Pennyfield Street?"
"Yes," Dory said, walking downstairs again. In her gut, she knew that whatever guest he had let into his house, he wouldn't have taken them upstairs. As she shone her light around, she couldn't see anything suspicious. The lock to the door was intact. "I'll go to the police in the morning," she said as he walked into the front room, where a sofa and two chairs stood around a low table. A small piano sat along the wall and Dory was drawn to the pictures.
There was one in front of a church. It was old. Obviously his wedding picture. Leaning close to it, she stared. It was difficult to make
out. Young men sometimes looked so different from their older selves. "This him?" she asked and the warden walked over. "Yep. Him and Martha. She passed some time ago."
The warden scratched his head, seemingly unsure what to do. "Poor Frank."
Obviously this man knew him well if he referred to him by his Christian name. "He had some quarrels with people," she said.
"What's that got to do with bombs dropping on his head?"
"I don't think it was a bomb that killed him. I think someone did—someone he invited in."
"Or perhaps you're just being fanciful," the man said.
"Maybe," Dory said without offense. "It was just that he was found in the rubble of a collapsed building without any dust on him. How many bodies do you know that come out clean from a building collapse?" As a warden, he saw quite a few of them. And what she said made perfect sense to him.
"Bastards," he finally said.
"I think he was killed here and carried over to Pennyfield Street in that burnt rug out back. About three weeks ago."
"Maybe I can identify him."
"He's already been buried, but they'd have a picture of him at the morgue at Great London Hospital. It would confirm it if you can identify him. I didn't know him and I can't tell from this photo," she said, holding up the gilt frame with Frank Dellow's wedding photo. “Sorry, what was your name?"
"David Wilkens."
"I'll go over and have a look in the morning," he said, sounding defeated. "Poor Frank. Who'd do this?"
"I don't know yet. But I’m going to find out."
Chapter 30
MR. DELLOW'S STREET was not in the Limehouse police's jurisdiction, so she had to go the Poplar police station, where she'd never been before. A yellow brick building with bars on all the windows. It was certainly not inviting, but she walked in to approach the desk.
"I need to speak to a detective about a body found on Pennyfield Street."
"Oh, aye," the desk sergeant said without any infliction or surprise. "The body is there now?"