The Right Sort of Man

by Allison Montclair

  “Which is?”

  “Which is we now know that Miss La Salle’s ex followed her to our establishment, even to the point of coming into our office under false pretenses.”

  “So we’re talking about that now?”

  “Are you done yelling at me?”

  “Have you learned the error of your ways?”

  “Oh, yes, Mama,” burbled Iris. “I promise that I will never pull a knife on a man again.”

  “Very good.”

  “Unless he deserves it.”

  “Were you ever properly spanked as a child?”

  “I wasn’t. That came much later. Now, back to Mister Pilcher trailing Miss La Salle to our office. I think that somewhat unusual behaviour for someone who has supposedly dropped her for better things.”

  “Not very ex-y at all,” said Gwen. “And now he’s worried about our investigation. You still haven’t told me how you extricated yourself from the hands of the angry mob. I expected to see at least one pitchfork sticking out of your derrière when you came out.”

  “You make it sound more exciting than it was,” said Iris. “I heard Archie greet ‘Rog,’ turned around, and there was our dustman, dressed spivvily. I thought the jig was up, but threw him a line like I’d met him before as Mary.”

  “And?”

  “Then the miracle happened,” said Iris. “He played along.”

  “He did? Why?”

  “That’s what flummoxed me,” said Iris. “He could have got me out of the way right then and there, and made sure Archie would never give me the time of day again. But he didn’t.”

  “Maybe he has something he’s hiding,” mused Gwen. “Hiding even from Archie. And giving you up would have raised too many questions.”

  “Interesting thought,” said Iris. “Maybe he and Tillie had some game going on under Archie’s nose. Maybe the breakup was staged to throw him off the scent. Maybe it went wrong, or she double-crossed him, or he needed her out of the way to keep Archie from tumbling it. Which means that we now have ourselves a suspect!”

  “With two possible motives—jealousy and greed. Good work for a night in a pub, I say.”

  “And I nearly got to cross swords with a possible murderer, which is more fun than I’ve had in a while.”

  “It’s all fun and games until someone gets stabbed through the heart,” said Gwen. “What do we do with this—follow up with Mister Pilcher?”

  “We have enough to bring to Parham, I think.”

  “He won’t lift a finger,” said Gwen. “You should contact—”

  “No.”

  “You should contact Mike Kinsey,” Gwen persisted. “He’ll listen to you.”

  “Damn, damn, damn,” groaned Iris. “All right. I’ll call him first thing. Now, let’s talk about the most important event of the evening.”

  “Which was?”

  “Did you get a date with Des?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not. He’s taken a shine to you, and I didn’t see you fending him off with any great determination.”

  “I was flirting with him to get information about the case,” said Gwen. “Nothing else.”

  “Do you have his number now?”

  “I took it to be polite,” said Gwen. “No more than you would have done.”

  “He seems like a nice fellow,” said Iris. “A diamond in the rough, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Iris, how could I possibly date someone from the docks?” asked Gwen. “For all of his manners, his gentle nature, his—”

  She stopped, blushing.

  “His what?” asked Iris. “His beautiful eyes? His muscled physique? What were you going to say next in your litany of praise?”

  “I like him,” admitted Gwen. “But it could never work. I’ve already lied to him about who I am and what I do. It would be a cruelty for me to lead him on any further.”

  “So have yourself a fling and be done with it,” urged Iris. “We’re entitled to a little fun every now and then.”

  “Even if it’s at the expense of someone else?”

  “It’d be fun for him, too, don’t you think?”

  “What I think is that I am not like you in this respect,” said Gwen. “I am not being disapproving, mind you, but I’ve never been—”

  She paused, not wanting to complete the sentence.

  “Promiscuous?” said Iris. “Is that the word that you hesitate to apply?”

  “You’re not promiscuous,” said Gwen. “You’re adventurous.”

  “Oh, I like that,” said Iris. “Puts more of a positive spin on my self-destructive behaviour.”

  “And you haven’t been all that adventurous since I’ve known you, have you?”

  “Good Lord, I had two broken engagements and all that Mayfair had to offer between the sheets. What more do I have to do to convince you?”

  “Oh, I’m not saying that you weren’t like that once,” said Gwen. “But the war changed you, didn’t it?”

  “It changed all of us,” said Iris.

  “I happen to believe that there is currently only one man in your life,” said Gwen. “And that you only see him every now and again.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Well, you’ve been much happier in the mornings these past few days. You were last like this about two months ago. In between, you were quieter. One might even say moody.”

  “My moods shift with the phases of the moon,” said Iris airily. “You have proved nothing. What other evidence do you have?”

  “You’ve been wearing Vol de Nuit recently,” said Gwen. “Not every day. But you sneak off to the lav on certain days, often coinciding with some tiny additions of frill to your standard wardrobe. Given that Guerlain’s generally not available here, I surmise that your fellow is a traveler to the Continent. Since he was there for a lengthy stay, he is probably someone either diplomatic or military.”

  “Heavens,” exclaimed Iris in chagrin. “You’ve figured all that out from my perfume?”

  “I love Vol de Nuit,” sighed Gwen. “Ask him to pick me up a bottle next time. He’s married, isn’t he?”

  Iris didn’t answer.

  “He is,” said Gwen sadly. “If he wasn’t, you’d be dropping hints about him right and left, even if you were lovers without benefit of clergy. Another area of your life that you keep secret. It’s a wonder that you don’t burst.”

  “Is your psychiatrist any good?” said Iris. “Maybe we could go together.”

  “I don’t trust him, to tell you the truth,” said Gwen. “He was hired by my mother-in-law.”

  “Interesting. Well, I am impressed with your analysis. I will neither confirm nor deny its accuracy, but your skills are formidable. Nevertheless, your attempt to divert me from the Des situation is for naught. I think that you should consider giving him a tumble just to get yourself back on the horse.”

  “What a horrid metaphor.”

  “You might accidentally enjoy yourself, darling.”

  “No doubt. But again, no thanks.”

  “Don’t you miss it?” asked Iris curiously.

  “It? You mean sex?”

  “Yes, I mean sex. I mean what you’ve had before on at least one occasion, which I cleverly deduce from the fact that you have a child. It’s part of our life.”

  “It was,” said Gwen. “Very much so.”

  “So don’t you have longings for more?”

  “Of course I do,” said Gwen sharply. “I miss it. I miss it because I miss Ronnie, and it was all bound up with loving him. If he was alive today, I would be waiting every night in our bedroom in indecent poses while draped in the sheerest of silks, presenting tableaux that would make a French postcard blush. I would seek out forbidden books containing exotic Oriental techniques and I would learn them all, because I do miss it, and he was It, It with a capital I. Every moment alone with him was ecstasy, and there is no possible way that it will ever be like that with anyone else ever again. I want Ronnie. I
want him so badly that it hurts, it physically hurts me, do you understand? So, no, Iris, I am not interested in a little fun, as you put it. I don’t want fun. Fun will only be a disappointment.”

  Iris said nothing, but reached out, took her friend’s hand, and squeezed it gently. Gwen gripped Iris’s hand hard, then hung on to it until they reached the train.

  * * *

  Andrew was in her flat when Iris walked in. He looked at her face, then grinned.

  “You’ve been up to something, haven’t you?” he asked.

  “I have been up to many things,” she declared proudly. “I have put my undercover skills to good use. I have successfully impersonated an East Ender, I have infiltrated a den of gangsters, and I almost got into a knife fight. Now, I would like to put on a fabulous frock, get you into a dinner jacket, and go out on the town. Belle Meuniere for a thick, juicy black-market steak, then dancing at the Bagatelle.”

  He came forward and took her in his arms.

  “I don’t have a dinner jacket here,” he said.

  “I know,” she said, holding him close.

  “The steaks at Belle Meuniere are actually well-disguised horse meat,” he said. “The secret is the sauce.”

  “Damn.”

  “And I can’t be seen with you in public.”

  “I know, I know,” she said, pulling herself away from him.

  “I have brought things in tins and a decent claret to share,” he said.

  “After,” she said, grabbing him by the tie and leading him into her bedroom.

  * * *

  Gwen walked through the front door of the house, her mind still racing with the day’s events. Inside the front hallway, Percival stood on the same spot on which he had stood the night before.

  “Good evening, Madam,” he said.

  “Good evening, Percival,” she replied. “Is standing guard now a regular part of your duties?”

  “Lady Carolyne wishes to speak with you,” he said. “She is in the library.”

  “Déjà vu,” she said under her breath.

  “Excuse me, Madam?”

  “Isn’t this where we came in?”

  “It is not for me to say, Madam. Will you follow me, please?”

  She sighed and walked down the hallway behind him. He knocked on the door, then held it open for her.

  Lady Carolyne sat in the same chair by the fireplace in which she had sat during the previous evening’s haranguing.

  “Mrs. Bainbridge is here, Lady Carolyne,” announced Percival. Then he closed the door behind Gwen.

  Gwen took a deep breath and walked over to the other chair.

  “You wished to speak to me, Lady Carolyne?” she asked.

  Her mother-in-law did not reply. Instead, she held up a newspaper, the front page facing Gwen.

  “Oh,” said Gwen weakly. “I didn’t know we took the Mirror.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “A slumming society girl who made her fortune marrying the sole heir to Bainbridge millions,’” read Lady Carolyne. “‘Now, she fixes up other social climbers with ambitions of joining their betters. Unfortunately, her latest customer, a lovely East End lass, met her Waterloo in the guise of a petty Croydon Lothario by the name of Dickie Trower.’”

  She tossed the newspaper into the fireplace.

  “Utter trash,” she said. “With you wallowing right in the midst of it. Working with murderers, are you?”

  “I don’t believe that he did it,” said Gwen.

  “He’s been arrested for it, hasn’t he?” sniffed Lady Carolyne. “Scotland Yard seems to think he killed that poor girl.”

  “I know what they think,” said Gwen.

  “How?”

  “Because they interviewed us, of course,” said Gwen. “How do you think they got on to poor Mister Trower?”

  “Poor Mister Trower, is it?”

  “We think he’s innocent.”

  “We? You mean you and that sordid little minx you work with?”

  “Don’t you dare call her that!” said Gwen. “You have no right to belittle my friends.”

  “I have no right? My dear daughter-in-law, let me remind you that you live under our roof, purely upon our charity. If I wish to describe that wretched Sparks woman in that manner, then I shall. Given her record of broken engagements and God knows how many affairs—”

  “Leave her out of this,” said Gwen. “You don’t want me under your roof? Then give me back my child and I will happily leave here.”

  “That will not happen,” said Lady Carolyne. “And considering the tarnishing of the Bainbridge name by your conduct, I do not see that you have any hope of improving your chances in the future.”

  “What if Dickie Trower turns out to be innocent?” asked Gwen. “What if we are right?”

  “And the rest of the world is wrong? Doubtful to say the least. Who is going to take his side?”

  “We are,” said Gwen. “We already have.”

  “Two silly girls against the world,” scoffed Lady Carolyne. “What could you possibly do to change this?”

  “Investigate,” said Gwen. “Find the truth.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “We’ve already begun,” said Gwen.

  “What? What do you mean, you’ve already begun?”

  “We are investigating the—situation,” said Gwen.

  She was going to say “case,” but realized how strange it would sound.

  “Investigating?” laughed Lady Carolyne. “First you thought you could be a businesswoman. Now, you fancy yourself a detective? Utter madness!”

  “Nevertheless—”

  “Madness,” repeated Lady Carolyne more thoughtfully. “I am beginning to wonder…”

  “Wonder what?” asked Gwen, a sudden chill falling over her.

  “I wonder if perhaps this behaviour of yours is symptomatic of a deeper mania,” said Lady Carolyne. “When is the last time you spoke with Doctor Milford?”

  “Two weeks ago,” said Gwen.

  “Before all of this happened,” mused Lady Carolyne. “No wonder that he missed the signs. I think that I shall have a little talk with him.”

  “Stay out of that,” said Gwen. “You have no right to interfere with my treatment.”

  “My dear, it concerns the welfare of your child,” said Lady Carolyne blandly. “I would be in dereliction of my duties as his guardian if I did not see to the mental welfare of his mother. Perhaps more extensive measures need to be taken.”

  “You cannot—”

  “It would be such a shame if the Mirror were to hear about that portion of your past,” continued Lady Carolyne. “We’ve managed to keep it from the press so far—”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” said Gwen.

  “I will make an appointment to see Doctor Milford,” said Lady Carolyne. “I will listen to what he has to say. It would be in your interest to co-operate. I am done with you. Go fetch Percy and tell him that I am going out tonight.”

  Gwen stood, on the verge of screaming at the other woman, then forced it back down and fled the room.

  * * *

  “You were particularly enthusiastic tonight,” commented Andrew.

  “Was I?” said Iris.

  They were sitting side by side on her bed, propped up against the pillows, eating something grey and fishy straight from the tins. Two partially filled glasses of claret sat on the nightstand.

  “You came in keyed up,” he said. “I felt positively overwhelmed by the onslaught. Remarkably enjoyable, by the way.”

  “Thank you, kind sir,” she said, digging out some more and shoving it into her mouth greedily. “Any idea what this was when it was alive and swimming?”

  “I suspect whale of some kind,” he said. “Thank God for the claret. Otherwise, we’d be revisiting the flavour all night.”

  “You’re staying overnight?”

  “I’m flying back tomorrow,” he said. “Told Poppy it was an early plane, so staying in town was the easiest way.”

&n
bsp; “Awfully short notice. When did you find out?”

  “Last night.”

  “So, this is our farewell fling,” said Iris.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re spending it with me instead of your wife. I’m flattered.”

  “I much prefer it here,” he said.

  “Did you give her a proper send-off as well?” asked Iris, reaching over him for her wine glass.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Fulfill your husbandly duties,” said Iris, taking a sip. “Give her something to remember you by while you’re off fighting the secret wars.”

  “That’s really none of your business,” he said.

  “None of my affair, you mean,” she said. “Oops, sorry. I’m the affair, not her. I forget that sometimes. Especially when we’re in the throes of it.”

  “Where did this come from?” he asked. “Are you having second thoughts about our arrangement?”

  “Long past second,” said Iris. “Deep into double digits by now.”

  “What brought this on?”

  “I watched Gwen turn down a perfectly good opportunity to lose herself to a very acceptable specimen of the male species tonight.”

  “So?”

  “So her reasons spoke of her love, her loss, her mourning—her passion.”

  “Passion.”

  “Yes, passion,” repeated Iris. “What am I to you, Andrew? Is this passion?”

  “I’ve told you that I love you,” he said. “Many times.”

  “In here,” she said. “In one or two other rooms before you arranged for this flat. Would you say it outside?”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Piccadilly Circus. On the Serpentine. In Covent Garden. Shouted from the rooftops would be nice.”

  “I’ve told you—”

  “That you can’t be seen with me, I know,” said Iris. “The question for me is can there be passion when there is also caution and secrecy?”

  “You agreed to all of this when we began,” said Andrew.

  “I did,” said Iris. “Part of the thrill at the time was the clandestine nature of it all. I said yes, and I think that I have held up my end of the bargain adequately.”

  “More than adequately,” he said. “God, now it’s sounding entirely mercenary. What is it that you want?”