by C. G Oster
Setting off from home, Dory bought herself a cup of soup from the mobile canteen. In all their time off, no one in the house had thought to go to the shop. They had run out of practically everything. None of the three of them could be accused of being domestic successes, especially perhaps as they had simply grown to accept that the wall to their kitchen was mostly gone.
Dory had to put the musings of her domestic failings aside as she walked toward the Ruby Rose. It was probably not open yet, but Dory could knock. The Magrens would live on the upper story.
Doing just that. Dory waited. Maybe she couldn't be heard, so she banged harder.
"We're not open," a woman finally said from the window above. She had curlers in her hair as she glared down at Dory.
"I need to speak to you about your husband."
"What about my husband?" she said in a sharp voice.
"Could we speak inside?"
"No."
"Alright. Do you think he killed Mr. Dellow?" Dory yelled, a little bit as punishment for making her have this conversation out in the street in full view of the entire street.
"You from the paper?"
"No, I am the one who found Mr. Dellow." Technically that was true. "I am trying to find out who killed him."
"I'll be right down," the woman finally said and disappeared. When she came to the door, she was surprisingly short. "Come in," she said and eyed the street suspiciously. A pub looked oddly bare without any people. "My Jimmy's never killed anyone, and I won't hear of anyone saying anything else."
"Well, the police seem to think so," Dory said.
"They're trying to pin this on Jimmy and it's unfair."
"They say Mr. Magren and Mr. Dellow quarreled."
"Jimmy quarrels with anyone who gives him lip in his establishment. It's his right."
"There was nothing else?"
"Why would there be? Frank Dellow was just some old codger. Whined about everyone and everything. If anyone murdered him it'd be the people that were forced to listen to him. Jimmy kicked him out for being lippy. That's all. Besides, he spends hardly anything, sits around for hours nursing a measly pint. We can't have the place filled up with those. We'd never make ends meet. If someone killed him, it weren't my Jimmy."
"Mr. Dellow was a dock worker before he retired, I think."
"So?"
"Well, they all stick together, don't they?" Dory had no idea where she was going with this. Perhaps Frank had threatened Jimmy in some way that would affect his business.
"No, they don't. Not when a pint's involved. And not for the likes of Frank Dellow. Not exactly Mr. Popularity."
"Who else didn't like him?"
The girl's face clouded over a little. "It's not so much that they hate him. He's just hard work, isn't he? Always got his back up about something. You'd say it was cold outside and he'd argue with you even if it was snowing. Argued about absolutely everything. But no one took him seriously. He was just like that. Cantankerous. Some go like that when they age, don't they? Maybe he was always like that. His wife must have been a saint."
The girl was either a very accomplished liar, or she was telling the truth. She had a naturalness about her that was hard to replicate. It was a shame she had aligned herself with someone like Jimmy Magren, if the rumors about him were true. But then she certainly wasn't some mouse scurrying around in the shadows. This girl seemed to have her own opinions.
"You go to the shelter down the road at night, don't you?" Dory asked.
"Every night. And I would have noticed if Jimmy fucked off and carted some body around half the night. I'm not an idiot. He didn't go out that night or any other night. I swear it."
Perhaps it was Dory's trusting nature, but she wanted to believe her. It was hard for her to doubt something someone was earnestly saying to her. Anyway, there was no trace of some underlying alibi coming from this corner—unless Jimmy Magren found Mr. Dellow annoying to the point of murdering him. There had to be something else—but what? And where could she turn to ask?
That woman, Mrs. Simpson, would have said if there was anything deeper, but she would perhaps know someone who knew this couple better than she did. It might be an avenue worth exploring.
Saying goodbye, Dory took her leave and didn't quite know what to do with herself. She had no idea where Mrs. Simpson lived, but she had to be nearby. There wouldn't be time to go to the shelter tonight, because the searchlight would be fixed and it would be back to normal come nightfall.
Dory had to take to asking random people on the street, but she was finally pointed in a direction and was led to a green door in a set of terrace houses.
"Yes?" the woman said when she opened the door.
"Mrs. Simpson. I am Dory Sparks. We spoke the other day."
"So we did. I see you survived the night fleeing into the dropping bombs. I also understand that the police have been looking for poor Frank Dellow's murderer. Frightful, isn't it?"
"They are questioning Jimmy Magren."
"I'm not surprised."
"Still, though, haven't really caught wind on a motive. For murder, I find stronger motive than a simple quarrel is usually the case. The only thing that ties him is a sighting by the neighbor, Mrs. Crewes." Only after did Dory realize she had just let slip something she had promised to keep secret, and she had done it to the biggest gossip around. How could she have been so stupid? Dory was mortified by her own carelessness. Could she have just jeopardized the whole investigation with her loose lips. She hadn't even thought.
"I'd heard," Mrs. Simpson said and Dory visibly relaxed. It was common knowledge. Perhaps the police were not so good at keeping their own secrets, or maybe Mrs. Crewes was spreading this knowledge far and wide.
"Do you think she is credible?"
Mrs. Simpson looked surprised by the question. "I don't see why she would lie. In a court of law, she might be challenged, though. Been known to cheat when she can. Had some stolen ration book she tried to present. Got told off for it. Everyone knows. Her husband was a little the same. You wouldn't feel comfortable having him in your house in case something disappeared. Sly and cunning the lot of them. Still, I can't see her lying about something so serious. I wouldn't say she is a downright malicious type. Just don't trust her with your wallet if you know what's good for you."
"She didn't have anything against Mr. Magren, did she?"
"No. There were some run-ins between the late Mr. Crewes and Jimmy, but everyone had run-ins with Jimmy. If Mrs. Crewes says she saw him, then she probably did. Never been a fault with her eyes."
Dory leaned back in her seat. This still wasn't giving her anything. If Mrs. Crewes saw him around the time Dellow was murdered, that did suggest he’d done it, but there was still nothing like a proper motive.
"Do you know anyone who would know of a deeper reason why Jimmy Magren would murder Mr. Dellow, some reason other than complaining about the service at the Ruby Rose?"
Putting her fingers to her lips, Mrs. Simpson thought for a while. "I suppose you could go speak to his ex-wife. If anyone would know, it would be her, but she left London some while ago.”
"Do you know where she is?"
"Can't say that I do."
Well, that didn't help, Dory thought.
"I'll make some tea and you can tell me about how you discovered Mr. Dellow's murder. I hear it makes an interesting tale."
Was there anything this woman didn't hear about?
Chapter 33
THE GERMANS CAME that night and Dory lost herself finding them in the dark skies above. The searchlight was functional, but it had a kink whenever she moved it to the left. It worked, though, and that was the important part. Vera searched the skies as she normally did, giving direction when she could.
Dory had almost forgotten the heat of the lamp, which was more pleasant in the cold. Light drizzle steamed off the searchlight drum.
Lady Pettifer's train ticket returned to her mind and the sea of indecisiveness that came with it. Technically
, she could go at dawn and return on the 3 o'clock train. Then repeat the same thing to Swanley the next day. It would mean a remarkable lack of sleep, but everyone would be happy.
Dory knew Lady Pettifer hadn't invited her to cause trouble, but she really wanted to see her, and in some way insisting the ATS weren't abusing her. Visitors would also be a reprieve from the constant worry over Andrew, her son, and Vivian. Maybe even Cedric. Although safe in America, he certainly wouldn't be safe if he was crossing the Atlantic. The Athenia and the City of Bendares, both sailing to Canada with a load full of evacuee children could attest to that. The oceans were not safe for anyone. No one was safe anywhere, it seemed.
Then there was the next step in her investigation to continue. In the morning, she would write to Mr. Dellow's vicar friend, and hopefully the man would write back. Who knew what would come of that?
And lastly, the former Mrs. Magren, who no one seemed to know the whereabouts of these days. But there had been a divorce, so there must be a solicitor and even a barrister dealing with it. They would perhaps know in which part of the country she now resided. The courthouse would have the records. Perhaps she could ask Mr. Jones to advise her if it proved difficult. It shouldn't, though. Court records were public.
Compared to other nights, the Germans seemed a bit half-hearted. It wasn't a heavy night of bombardment, nor were there endless waves of planes. They came, dropping their load and were off again. Hopefully not too much damage would be inflicted. Perhaps they near froze to death up there and were all keen to get back to their bases. Bitterly, Dory hoped so. She hoped they suffered physically and also with their conscience for what they did night after night.
At around three in the morning, the bombing appeared to stop. They waited and searched, but they heard no more planes coming.
"Guess they're cutting out early tonight," Vera said, dragging her seat closer to the searchlight. "When are they ever going to stop? It's not like they're achieving anything. By now we're so used to it, it's almost second nature."
That was far from true, but Dory understood Vera's point. "If we haven't broken by now, we're hardly going to." Still, though, people were tired of having to huddle underground every night, emerging to possible homelessness. Tempers were fraying and the cold wasn't helping as few had enough coal to keep warm.
Were they actually winning this war? Were they achieving anything? Or was this all going to end with the Germans knocking on doors down in Dover?
A shiver ran up Dory's spine at the thought. The idea of Germans marching into London was terrifying. What would be the best thing to do in that case? Escape? To where? She would always be welcome at Wallisford Hall, but that might be the worst place to be. In Poland, the Germans had been brutal to the landowning class. There was nothing to say they wouldn't be here too.
Dory could well remember how some of the gentlemen and ladies of higher standing had quite admired Mr. Hitler before the war. Surely they didn't do so now. It went to show how very wrong they could be in their assessment. A fine education didn't necessarily make people intelligent.
It was a dull few hours until dawn, but it finally crested and Dory turned off her searchlight. With having the days off, her sleep patterns were out of whack. Perhaps she would have a proper sleep before she sought out the nearest courthouse. Betsy would know where to find it. Apparently her father had appeared before the judge a time or two.
They all walked home together as the people of the city emerged from their hiding places and started their days.
They walked past a woman whose skirt was beyond a doubt made from curtains. Even the sun fade was visible in waves across the material. But at least she had a new skirt. Perversely, it made Dory wonder what would happen to Mr. Dellow's clothes. And his house. With the number of homeless, surely they wouldn't leave it sitting empty. Without an heir, his estate would be given over to the crown, unless some distant next of kin could be found. Would they even know of this man? It was common in old novels that people received a surprise inheritance from some relative that they'd never known about.
They all went to sleep shortly after arriving at home, to wake shortly after one in the afternoon. The drizzle still fell outside the window and it was a gray, dull day. Dory pulled on a fresh shirt before dressing in her uniform again. She was sick to death of the dull green she had to wear every day. If she had some nice curtains, she would have designs on them as well. With longing, she remembered the beautiful, summery dresses she had worn in France. It seemed a lifetime ago.
"I'm heading out," she called into the kitchen, going straight for the door, heading for the telephone box down the road. The telephone book hung on a chain. There weren't that many courts in London, the most likely for a divorcing couple from here had to be the Tower Bridge Magistrates Court. More money had to be spent on bus fares. It wasn't cheap this sleuthing business, but hopefully her next step would be revealed either by the vicar or the former Mrs. Magren. Those were the two avenues of inquiries she had before her.
The building she sought was stone and brick, and imposing in the way Victorian buildings were. It wasn't a place of levity and Dory felt the somber atmosphere as soon as she walked in. People spoke in hushed voices and dressed in old-fashioned wig and gowns. The office of the court clerks was located on the second floor and Dory walked up a gray stone staircase.
There was a queue and she stood patiently until it was her turn to speak to the bespectacled thin man behind the desk. Here was someone who could benefit from a bit of sun, Dory thought as she contemplated how to go about this. If there was a special language she was supposed to use. In lieu of, she simply stated what she wanted. Maybe she did need Mr. Jones' assistance after all. "I wish to gain access to the records for the divorce of a Mr. Jimmy Magren."
"Date?" the man said with absolutely no enthusiasm and pulled over a piece of paper to write on.
"I don't know. He is the publican in the Ruby Rose."
The man looked unimpressed. "Return in two weeks. I'll see if I can find it." With that, she was dismissed. Two weeks. That was an eternity away, but what choice did she have? It wasn't as if she could go back there and search herself, like she had at the hospital. Even the ATS could not get into the court archives.
So she went outside. There was nothing for her to do but wait. Although it was nice to sit down by the river. The last time she had done so had been with Captain Ridley.
In her mind, she could imagine herself writing to him, reporting that she had solved the murder of Mr. Dellow. Hopefully he would be impressed. She would be impressed with herself if she solved it. It was by far more difficult to solve than the other two she had been involved with. This one felt more like pulling teeth, and she'd have no idea what to do next if nothing came of speaking to either the vicar or the former Mrs. Magren.
Two weeks. How did anyone in the city get anything done if they had to wait two weeks? It seemed to be common, though, if one wanted information from the official services or municipalities. A memory of the letter in Mr. Dellow's desk returned to her mind. He'd done the same thing. Had requested information from the council. She wondered what for. What had he been searching for?
Thinking of it now, it seemed an important question. What had he been searching for? It was obviously something he'd been willing to wait weeks to collect. Had he collected it? She didn't know. If nothing else in these two weeks of waiting, she could find out what he'd requested and if he'd collected it. There was nothing in his house that had looked like records of any kind. And if he had collected it, what had he done with it?
Chapter 34
IT WAS A RUSH TO GET to the city council building before it closed, and longer to stand in the queue. It seemed she did endless amounts of standing in queues of late. How much of her free time was spent standing in queues? It was part of the price of getting something.
The clerk looked tired by the time she got to the front of the line.
"I'm here about some files ordered by Mr. Frank Dell
ow," she said to the woman.
"You hardly look like a Frank."
"No, Mr. Dellow is incapacitated," she said, not finding an appropriate way to say that he'd been topped off and whatever was in those files might tell her why. It was simply easier to imply he was unable to get the files, which was technically true.
"One moment,” the woman said, then walked over to a filing cabinet and sliding the top shelf open. Finally, she lifted out a manila envelope. "You can't take these away. You can view them, then you give them back to me."
"Of course," Dory said, accepting the envelope almost fearing that the woman would change her mind. Curiosity coursed through her as she carried the envelope away to a tall table over to the side. The envelope had been used again and again, with names scratched out. The one that wasn't said ‘Frank Dellow.’
Unwinding the tie, Dory opened the flap and pulled out the documents inside. There were three separate bundles. The letterhead was from the Ministry of Works, and this was about some kind of application for compensation regarding building damage.
Dory started from the beginning and read, but it was as though she only got part of the story, because this was a response to some application. The application wasn't actually in here. It referred to a sum of one hundred and twenty pounds, which was a fair bit of money. For war-related damage to number forty-one Hurst Street.
Well, that was Mr. Dellow's street, but there wasn't any damage to his house—unless he'd had it fixed. It could be windows and he had the means of getting new window glass, she supposed. That wouldn't cost anywhere near one hundred and twenty pounds, though. She checked the date and this was from three months ago.
Dory couldn't make heads or tails of this. There were no repairs to Mr. Dellow's house. It would be visible.
Putting it to the side, she checked the second bundle, which was a second response, this time for the sum of one hundred pounds, dated two months ago. Checking the third, it was the same for ninety pounds one month and a half ago.