“Would you consider divorcing Poppy and marrying me?” asked Iris.
“Are you proposing, Sparks?”
“I asked you a question.”
“Would I consider it? Yes.”
“Consider,” she repeated. “Damn that word. It gives you all manner of escape routes, doesn’t it?”
“You and I always need room for a fast exit, don’t we, Sparks?”
“All right. Let me ask this properly. If I said that I wanted you to marry me, would you? Would you divorce Poppy?”
He didn’t reply.
“It’s astonishing how a man who risks life and limb nearly every day for his country could be such a coward,” she said bitterly.
“That’s not fair,” he said. “My marriage is complicated.”
“And I am simple,” said Iris. “I am a simple woman with simple needs, but I’m wondering if I should be asking for complexity. I look at Gwen and all that she has had and lost, and how it’s nearly destroyed her, and do you know? I envy her. She’s had more happiness in a few short years with one man than I have had in all of my life, and I don’t know if I can even attain that anymore.”
“Did you ever have a chance for it with any of them?” he asked.
It was her turn to be silent. He laughed, suddenly.
“Mike,” he said. “Mike Kinsey.”
“Maybe,” she said. “I didn’t realize it at the time if so.”
“He comes back into your life, betrothed to another,” said Andrew. “As a result, you are filled with regrets for what might have been, but what in actuality probably would not have been. And all of those regrets are now being projected onto me.”
“My regrets about you are entirely independent, I assure you.”
“Right,” he said, getting up.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting dressed. Leaving.”
“I thought you were going to spend the night.”
“So did I,” he said, grabbing his shorts from the floor and pulling them on.
“Where will you stay?”
“I’ll find a nice hard chair at the airfield and have a kip there until my plane,” he said.
She watched him as he dressed, sipping her claret. He finished, then picked up his glass and downed the rest of his.
“I was wrong,” he said, staring at the dregs. “The bad taste doesn’t go away.”
“When do you return?” she asked.
“Don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Look, if you want to reconsider what you and I have said tonight, that’s fine,” he said. “But if you wish to see other men while I’m gone, feel free.”
“That was about the worst thing you could have possibly said to me,” she said.
“The rent on the flat is paid for through the end of the year,” he said, picking up his bag. “I’ll hang onto my key for now, if you don’t mind.”
She waited until she heard the door open and close behind him, then got up to make certain that it was locked. Then she poured the remainder of the claret into her glass and gulped it down.
* * *
She woke the next morning sprawled across the bed, her head throbbing. She made herself coffee instead of her usual tea. It didn’t help.
She decided to see Mike Kinsey in person rather than call him. Telephones could be hung up. Of course, he could refuse to see her, but she liked her chances better if she could confront him directly, especially if there were other witnesses around forcing him to be polite.
She took the bus to Westminster, got off before the bridge, and walked down Victoria Embankment to the entryway to New Scotland Yard. The two old buildings with their rounded brick towers projected an air of solidity, but Mike was in the newer Curtis Green building.
She walked through the arches to the interior, staying to the side in case any Flying Squads had to peel off in their Wolseleys, but it was relatively quiet. A constable at the front desk directed her to Mike’s office, which was the anteroom to Parham’s in the Homicide and Serious Crime Command. She saw her ex sitting behind a desk, typing laboriously away at some report.
“You still can’t type any faster than that?” she remarked.
He looked up at her and grimaced.
“What do you want, Sparks?” he asked.
“To make your life easier,” she said.
“Then turn around and walk away.”
“I need to talk to you about something,” she said, taking a seat by his desk. “I figured that if we met on your turf, there would be no unseemly displays.”
“That is something for which I should apologize,” he said. “It was an unforgivable action on my part.”
“And yet, I forgive you,” she said, reaching across his desk and grasping his hand for a second. “Given all that I need to be pardoned for, one kiss—a very good kiss, by the way—is scarcely worth mentioning.”
He pulled his hand away, sat back in his chair, and looked at her.
“You’re not here about that, are you?” he asked warily.
“What makes you say that, Detective Sergeant?”
“You came here and you’re being nice to me. Which means that you want something.”
“Yes, Mike, I do. As much as I would like to reminisce about the good times, I am here about the present. I have a new suspect for you for the murder of Matilda La Salle.”
“No, no, no,” he said. “That’s over and done with. We got our man.”
“And the Yard is never wrong.”
“We have the knife. We have motive and opportunity. It’s a strong case.”
“Still circumstantial.”
“Not our problem. We have enough to charge him, and we have done so.”
“What if I told you of someone with stronger motives, a longer history with her, and, moreover, a criminal background?”
“If you’re thinking about any of that gang of spivs she used to run with—”
“Not just any of them. A particular one. One who followed her to our office, who had a relationship with her before she decided to seek greener pastures, who saw our setup and could therefore figure out how to use our files to divert Mister Trower from his date. And who also would have known Trower’s address from those same files, which would have given him a chance to plant the murder weapon in such a blindingly obvious place.”
“You’re saying a spiv showed up—”
“On our very doorstep, right after she left, probably listening as we interviewed her.”
He picked up a notepad.
“Tell me,” he said.
She recounted what she knew about Manners/Pilcher, leaving out the near knife fight. When she was done, he stared at the pad, then slid it across.
“Sign that,” he said.
She read it over, then put her signature at the end and dated it. She gave it back to him.
“I’m not saying you’re correct,” he said. “I still don’t think that there’s anything here. But I’ll look into it.”
“Thank you, Mike,” she said. “I appreciate it. I honestly thought you would put up more resistance.”
“Whenever I resisted you, you would bring out the wheedling tone,” he said. “I thought we could forego that dance for once.”
“I never did!”
“Every single time,” he said. “I don’t think I could take the wheedling tone anymore.”
“I had no idea I was such a terror to you,” said Iris, getting to her feet. “Well, that’s all I have. You will call me if you turn up anything?”
“I will,” he promised, coming around the desk to hold the door for her. “And Sparks?”
“Yes?” she said, turning back to him.
“It’s good to see you again,” he said. “Regardless.”
“Likewise, Detective Sergeant Kinsey,” she said. “Now it’s back to the matrimonial mines for me.”
She gave him a bright smile that she didn’t feel, and left.
* * *
She sat by a window on the bus, staring at
the parade of Londoners going about their lives.
Andrew was gone, maybe for good. Mike was getting married.
She was twenty-nine, and this was how things were.
She wondered how Sally’s second visit to the Cornwalls had gone. The Right Sort dearly needed the cushion that payment would provide if they were going to survive any lengthy period without new customers. At least their investigation was over, and they could concentrate on the business of matching up potential couples. Unless those potential couples refused to accept their introductions for fear of filleting.
One good thing, she thought. I would like one good thing to happen to me today.
Maybe she would keep her appointment with Archie and buy a new pair of black market nylons. Maybe she’d take him up on his offer to go dancing. Dancing with a gangster might be exactly what she needed.
God. How had she turned into a woman who thought that dancing with a gangster was what she needed?
Still.
It might be fun.
* * *
Gwen had her box of index cards open on her desk when Iris finally arrived at the office.
“There you are,” she said. “I have been thinking about Mister Robertson. I have some candidates in mind for him.”
“Any new business?” asked Iris.
“A few more attempts to cancel,” said Gwen. “I assured them that even if they wanted to give up on their chances for a lifetime of happiness, we certainly would not.”
“Any word from Sally?”
“Not yet. How did things go with Mike?”
“I reported our findings,” said Iris, unpinning her hat and hanging it on the coat-tree. “He sounded interested. He said he would look into Mister Pilcher.”
“And that was that?”
“What did you think would happen?”
“I don’t know,” said Gwen. “It sounds so anticlimactic after everything we did. In my imagination, the two of you jump straight into a squad car and roar off, sirens screaming and flashers flashing.”
“We have no actual proof that Pilcher did it,” Iris pointed out.
“No, but—I don’t know, I expected more somehow.”
“There will be,” said Iris confidently. “Mike’s a good man.”
“He’s a good man now?”
“In terms of being a detective, yes.”
“You’re basing this upon what, exactly?” asked Gwen.
“I am assessing him solely on what I know of his abilities, apart from whatever biases against him that I may have accumulated because of our history.”
“You are being remarkably generous to him this morning,” observed Gwen. “Quite the change of heart. Tell me that you haven’t become sweet on him again.”
“No, that ship sailed long ago,” said Iris.
“Besides, you have your current man in your life.”
“That plane flew this morning,” said Iris.
“Oh?” said Gwen.
Then she looked more closely at her partner’s face.
“Oh,” she said sympathetically. “It was like that, was it?”
“It was like that,” said Iris. “A good thing, in the long run. It was inspired by you, by the way.”
“Me? How was I in any way responsible for this?”
“You made me realize that I wanted something better,” said Iris.
“How did I do that?”
“By turning down Des,” said Iris.
“My goodness,” said Gwen. “I had no idea that I was setting an example. So, you confronted your unnamed paramour and threw him out on his ear instead of making love? Well done!”
“Actually, after we made love,” confessed Iris.
“Oh,” said Gwen. “Not quite the same thing.”
“I mean, he was already there.”
“I really don’t want the sordid details.”
“He brought a bottle of claret. And snacks.”
“How thoughtful. Of both of you.”
“Yes, well, it’s over now, in any case.”
“Are you all right?” asked Gwen. “Seriously?”
“I am, I think. Or will be. It was time.”
“What now?”
“The corpse of our relationship is barely cooled, and you’re pushing me onto the next one?”
“No. I mean, what do we do now? Do we still pursue our investigation?”
“I think we have to give the police a chance. We don’t want them to feel like we’re doing their job for them.”
“That’s too bad,” sighed Gwen. “I made rather a loud show last night of how we were going to catch the killer ourselves.”
“Lady Carolyne again?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if it works out, we’ll take all the credit,” said Iris. “That should put a cork in her.”
“If only it were that simple,” said Gwen. “I wish—”
The telephone rang. She picked it up.
“The Right Sort Marriage Bureau, Mrs. Bainbridge speaking,” she said.
Then her expression grew troubled.
“No, it’s not—when?” she said. “Today? But I—no, no, I’m not trying to cause—Yes. Yes. Two o’clock. I’ll be there. Good-bye.”
She hung up and stared at the telephone.
“I have an appointment this afternoon,” she said. “Can you handle the office without me?”
“Of course,” said Iris. “Anything wrong?”
“So many things,” said Gwen. “Well, enough gloom and doom. Let’s talk about Mister Robertson. I have a candidate for him.”
* * *
The telephone rang around noon. Gwen answered it.
“Right Sort Marriage Bureau, Mrs. Bainbridge speaking. Yes, she’s here. One moment.”
She passed the telephone to Iris and mouthed, “Mike.”
“Hello, Sparks here,” said Iris.
“It’s Detective Sergeant Kinsey,” said Mike. “I have some information for you.”
“Yes, Detective Sergeant?” replied Iris, wondering at the formality.
“We’ve looked into your proposed suspect, and we are satisfied that he is not the killer.”
“Oh,” said Iris, her shoulders slumping. “Is the Yard permitted to tell me how it reached that conclusion?”
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “There is one more thing. You and your partner are specifically directed not to pursue this any further. Any attempts to investigate this matter will be regarded as interference with an ongoing police matter, and will be treated severely. Are we clear about this, Miss Sparks?”
“Quite clear, Detective Sergeant,” said Iris. “Thank you for your time. Good-bye.”
She hung up.
“Damn it,” she said. “They’ve ruled out Pilcher as a suspect.”
“Oh, no,” said Gwen. “Why?”
“He wouldn’t say,” said Iris. “He was being so curt. So formal with me.”
“Perhaps someone was with him while he made the call,” said Gwen. “Maybe he overstepped by looking into it.”
“Maybe.”
“What do we do now?”
“We’ve been officially warned away from doing anything more,” said Iris.
“Say for the sake of argument that we ignored that directive,” said Gwen. “What would we do next?”
“He threatened us with prosecution.”
“Last night, a man threatened us with a switchblade and you didn’t back down,” said Gwen.
“For which I earned your well-deserved scolding. And one man with a switchblade is easier to battle than an entire metropolitan police force.”
“Doing nothing for Mister Trower at this point is far worse than risking prosecution in pursuit of his exoneration.”
“True enough,” said Iris. “So, if we were to throw caution to the winds, then the next step would be to beard the lion in his den.”
“You’re going to the warehouse.”
“Yes.”
“Then I should—oh, blast. I have that ap
pointment.”
“Something you can’t break?”
“Not without—”
She stopped.
“What?” asked Iris.
“The appointment is with my psychiatrist,” said Gwen.
“You’ve never had an afternoon appointment with anyone since we’ve started,” said Iris. “Why today? Why did he call you?”
“That wasn’t him calling,” said Gwen. “That was Lady Carolyne. Or her secretary, rather. Lady Carolyne likes to delegate her dirty work.”
“What’s going on?”
“She saw the article in the Mirror. She wasn’t happy about it. She thinks my desire to clear Mister Trower is a symptom of an increased mania. That’s her justification, in any case. Hence the emergency appointment.”
“Since when does one’s mother-in-law force treatment on one?”
“They have custody of Ronnie,” said Gwen, looking down at her lap.
“What? How?”
“It happened while I was—away,” said Gwen. “No, Gwendolyn, call it by its name. While I was confined, strapped to a bed to keep from doing myself an injury, injected with God knows what to make me docile. They went to court to assume custody of the sole heir to the Bainbridge holdings, and they have not relinquished it. Every now and then, they construct a new hoop for me to jump through.”
“This is horrible!” exclaimed Iris. “Why have you never told me before?”
“What did you do in the war, Iris?” Gwen asked sharply, looking at her in a way that made the other woman flinch. “I don’t discuss certain portions of my life with you. With anyone.”
“Do you have someone advising you? Representing you legally?”
“I am still a ward of the court,” said Gwen. “They appointed me a guardian, and I suspect that he is in the pocket of my in-laws.”
“We should call Sir Geoffrey.”
“We should do nothing of the sort,” said Gwen. “This is none of your affair.”
“I am between affairs at the moment,” said Iris. “I don’t mind taking yours on.”
“There are no characters that you can portray nor accents you can use that will help me here,” said Gwen. “I have to plough through it myself. Which is why I want to continue the investigation. I have a personal stake in showing that we were right so that I may retake the high ground that I’ve lost.”
The Right Sort of Man Page 18