The Right Sort of Man

by Allison Montclair

  “Well, I don’t intend to stay here doing nothing,” said Gwen, picking up her handbag.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet. But in the meantime, I’m going to visit Dickie Trower. I haven’t seen him since last Tuesday. I want to tell him that we’re still in the hunt.”

  “What’s the use? You’re only going to give him hope.”

  “Maybe that’s all I can give him,” said Gwen. “But at least I can give him that. Would you care to come with me?”

  “No,” said Iris. “I am not capable of providing comfort to anyone right now.”

  “Fine,” said Gwen. “I will see you later. Mind the store, and try to maintain civility when you answer the telephone.”

  She walked out.

  “Good people,” muttered Iris. “Damn them all.”

  * * *

  This time, Gwen sat on the lower level of the Brixton tram, the scenery passing by unnoticed. Ronald Colman appeared briefly in her thoughts, and she shooed him away. Des showed up next, and she lingered on him, allowing herself a momentary wallow of fantasy and regret.

  Her recounting of the weekend adventures to Lady Carolyne the previous evening had failed to impress. She came away wondering if her mother-in-law was disappointed that Gwen hadn’t been killed during the endeavour. She found Little Ronnie and presented him with the reproduction of the narwhal, which she had had framed. He was delighted, and refused to let them hang it in his room, preferring to have it propped up at baseboard level in his playroom so that he could copy it properly with his crayons while sitting on the floor.

  She got off at the stop by Jebb Avenue without needing any reminder from the conductress, and walked to the prison entrance with the other women as if she had been visiting there all of her life.

  She signed in and waited patiently in the queue until it was her turn. She didn’t chat with the others. The three that had been there the first time were not here today, and her silence and downcast expression were respected as being normal and appropriate.

  Of all the places to fit in, she thought.

  Her name was called, and she followed the officer to the visiting chamber.

  The door on the prisoner’s side opened, and Dickie Trower came in. His eyes lit up when he saw her.

  “Mrs. Bainbridge, thank goodness,” he said. “Tell me that you’ve brought good news.”

  He had got thinner in the six tumultuous days since she last saw him, and there was a dull bruise on his jawline that made her shudder in sympathy. He saw it and grimaced momentarily.

  “One of the guards,” he said. “I didn’t obey an order quickly enough to his satisfaction. And I thought the Army was rough.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mister Trower,” said Gwen. “I hate that you are in here. I wish that I had brought good news. We have put a great deal of effort into your case. We had what we thought was a promising lead, but unfortunately…”

  “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me everything.”

  She recounted their efforts on his behalf, starting to cry when she reached their rejection by Parham.

  “I’m sorry, Mister Trower, I truly am,” she said when she had finished.

  “Please, don’t cry, Mrs. Bainbridge,” he said. “You’ll get me going, and I’m trying to be strong in your presence. I cannot believe that the two of you did all of this, that you risked your lives for me. You barely know me.”

  “We couldn’t sit idly by,” said Gwen. “We haven’t given up. We’ll find something. There has to be something we’ve missed.”

  “Well, until then, I will cope the best that I can. I am grateful for your visit. If it wasn’t for you and Mrs. Dowd, I wouldn’t have seen anyone at all.”

  “Oh, did she come by? That was kind of her.”

  “She brought me biscuits, and chatted about Herbert. She thinks he misses me.”

  “I’m sure that he does.”

  “He must be so lonely, sitting in that bowl in my empty room,” sighed Trower. “I hate the thought of him having no one to talk to him. Mrs. Dowd means well, but she has that house to keep up, and I doubt that she does any more than feed him, not that that isn’t a considerable task.”

  “I’m certain that the two of you will be reunited,” said Gwen.

  Mister Trower looked thoughtful, then smiled at her.

  “Mrs. Bainbridge, you have a son, I believe.”

  “Yes. Ronnie. He’s six.”

  “May I give Herbert to him? In gratitude for all that you’ve done, and so that Herbert will have someone who will pay him some attention.”

  “Oh, Mister Trower, I couldn’t possibly accept.”

  “No, I insist. It will be a good home for him, and I bet that your son will take to him as I did. It would do my heart mighty good to know that Herbert is bringing happiness to someone.”

  “How could I say no?” smiled Gwen. “Very well. Herbert shall come home with me.”

  “I will write you a note straight away,” said Trower. “I’ll send it out to the waiting room. Thank you, Mrs. Bainbridge. Thank you and Miss Sparks for everything.”

  “Good-bye, Mister Trower,” said Gwen. “I will come back and visit you again.”

  * * *

  Sally poked his head through the doorway, then ducked back quickly as he saw Iris, armed and ready.

  “Relax,” said Iris. “I wasn’t aiming at you.”

  “I’m waiting for the ‘all clear’ to sound,” he called from the hall. “Is it safe?”

  “Stop being stupid and come in.”

  His hand came into view, waving a white handkerchief. Then he stepped cautiously into the office.

  “A dartboard,” he observed. “How civilized. Put in a snooker table and a bar, and this place might have the makings of a real moneymaker. What made that big gash in the middle?”

  She held up her knife.

  “Do you get bonus points for that one?”

  “What brings you here today, Sally?”

  “I hadn’t heard from you, so I thought that I would check in to see if my secretarial skills were wanted,” he said, sitting across from her in Gwen’s chair. “Also, I saw the Times. How are you doing?”

  “How do I look like I’m doing?”

  “Like you are sublimating your urge to murder all of humanity.”

  “Only half of it. Yes, I am sublimating. Barely. It’s brave of you to put yourself in my presence.”

  “I have a small flask of Canadian whisky from which I derive my courage. Would you care for a nip?”

  “The Canadians do not make proper whisky.”

  “But at least they are making it. We won’t get any homegrown stuff until next year.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Suit yourself. Where is Milady this morning?”

  “Doing good works. Visiting a prisoner, then something involving loaves and fishes. She wasn’t clear about the details.”

  “Now, there’s the solution to the food shortage. Thank God Jesus is an Englishman. So, she’s visiting Mister Trower?”

  “Yes.”

  “Poor sod. What’s next for him?”

  “Trial. Conviction. Gallows.”

  “Unless you—”

  “No more unlesses.”

  He looked at her closely. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, keeping hers focused on the dartboard.

  “My dear Sparks,” he said. “If you don’t climb out of your hole and come up with a plan, you will lose the two best friends you have right now.”

  “The only two, and I’m already down one,” she said bleakly. “Are you throwing in the towel as well?”

  “You’re throwing it in on yourself. Well, I’m not sure if that’s possible, so let me rephrase. Remember the first time we saw each other after I came back from Italy?”

  “Vaguely. I was awash in celebration.”

  “You were trying to drink yourself to death. You told me that you’d rather make it look like that than a straight suicide for the sake of your
parents.”

  “I said that? I don’t remember.”

  “I do,” said Sally. “I remember everything that you’ve ever said.”

  “How sweet of you. I do remember waking in your bed, feeling absolutely wretched. And there you were on the sofa, feet dangling over the armrest. I assume nothing else happened.”

  “You assume correctly. And then we talked.”

  “We did.”

  “All day.”

  “Yes. You drove the black dog away. For a while.”

  “It’s back?”

  “It’s whimpering in the corner. I am fending it off with darts.”

  Sally rolled forward in his chair, gripped her by both shoulders, and turned her to face him.

  “I am not having that conversation again,” he said. “I am not a professional. I am only qualified to be your friend, and I haven’t been the best one because lately I have been so involved in my imaginary worlds that I’ve become neglectful of the real one. My time here as your Monster Friday while the two of you engage in feats of derring-do has chipped away at my walls, and for that, I’m grateful.”

  “Let go of me.”

  “No. Now, I don’t know what to do next, but Mrs. Bainbridge is bounding into the unknown without any guidance. You are needed, Sparks. You are wanted. I will be your sounding board, and will ask both pertinent and impertinent questions to goad you and guide you along, but start putting that brilliant noggin to use or I will abandon you for a less complicated woman who will adore my talent and think that my medals imply bravery.”

  “Let go of me, or I will puncture you with a dart.”

  He slid his hands from her shoulders to her wrists.

  “Go ahead and try,” he said.

  She looked down at her hands, then let the darts fall to the floor.

  “Unfair using your superior strength,” she said.

  “If I fought you in a fair fight, I’d lose,” he said. “If I release you, will you start thinking about this Trower problem?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well,” he said, letting her go. “Now, think. Talk it out. Go back to the beginning. Unleash the unlesses.”

  “Hypothesis Number One,” she said. “Dickie Trower killed Tillie La Salle. He corresponded with her, met her, stabbed her once through the heart in a nearby alley. Then he forged a letter—no, he would have had to do that first to provide himself with an alibi—”

  “Technically, not an alibi,” said Sally.

  “Whatever it’s called. Plausible evidence for his not meeting her. And having done all of this planning, he brought home the bloody knife and stuffed it under his mattress so the police could find it easily and feel better about themselves.”

  “Very considerate of him,” commented Sally. “So, what are the problems with that hypothesis?”

  “Trower isn’t the type,” said Iris. “Neither the murdering type nor the type who would make the obvious mistake of bringing back the bloody knife had he been the murdering type.”

  “Why the latter?”

  “He’s an accountant. Very well-organized.”

  “Death by Double Entry,” said Sally dramatically. “A radio play in three acts. All right, come up with an alternate hypothesis.”

  “Hypothesis Number Two. Someone else killed Tillie and framed Dickie Trower. We’ve been—”

  She frowned thoughtfully.

  “Go on,” urged Sally.

  “We’ve been concentrating our efforts on finding someone who had a motive for killing Tillie,” she said. “Maybe we should be searching for someone who wanted to frame Dickie Trower.”

  “Interesting idea. How would that fit the available evidence?”

  “Well, it would account for the knife. But the hypothetical murderer would have had to know about the Right Sort, because he knew enough to come here, use our stationery, and my Bar-Let, and forge Gwen’s signature.”

  “That’s a lot to know,” observed Sally.

  “That’s why we suspected Roger Pilcher. He knew about us after following Tillie here.”

  “But it wasn’t him.”

  “No, damn the luck. So someone faked the letter, then mailed it to Trower—”

  She stopped, got up, and started pacing furiously around the office.

  “There’s something, there’s something,” she muttered.

  Sally watched her, trying not to smile.

  “The postmark!” she exclaimed.

  “What about it?”

  “The postmark on the letter to Trower was from the Croydon Post Office.”

  “He lives in Croydon.”

  “Yes, and the man who mailed that letter knew that. He wanted to make sure Trower got the letter in time to abandon the date.”

  “He could have got Trower’s address from your files.”

  “Possibly. Or he could also live in Croydon. So: knew Trower, knew he was coming here, had access to his room, knows Croydon—Sally!”

  “I’m right here, Sparks.”

  “He lives in a rented room in a private house. With a landlady!”

  “Who could be reading his mail like a proper snoop,” said Sally.

  “And therefore knows about us. Our address, how we correspond, the works!”

  “Or could even be his confidante, never mind the mail. Sounds like someone to investigate. Do you need me to man the telephone while you go find Milady?”

  “Would you?” said Iris, dashing back to her desk and crawling under it.

  “What’s down there?” asked Sally.

  “Petty cash,” she said, opening the strongbox. “I’m taking a cab to Brixton. I need to talk to Trower and intercept Gwen.”

  She emerged, then threw herself on top of Sally and hugged him hard as the chair creaked in protest.

  “Thank you, Sally,” she said. “I do love you, you know.”

  She popped off him and flew out of the office. Sally watched her.

  “I know,” he sighed.

  * * *

  Iris flew down the stairs and burst through the front door. There were no more photographers lurking about—she and Gwen were last week’s news. She ran to Oxford Street where the traffic was heavier and succeeded in flagging down a cab within a minute.

  “Where to, Miss?” asked the cabby.

  “Brixton Prison,” she said. “Quickly.”

  He turned to look at her more closely, eyebrows raised.

  “You did hear me say ‘quickly,’ didn’t you?” she snapped.

  “I did, Miss,” he replied, activating the taximeter. “It’s just that most people are not in a hurry to go to jail.”

  “Your tip depends on your speed.”

  “And now I have incentive,” he said, stepping on the accelerator.

  * * *

  Gwen got off the tram on Combe Road and walked to Mrs. Dowd’s house, thinking about how one might transport a fish. She didn’t want to spend money on a cab unnecessarily, but the problem of carrying a fishbowl on a series of trams and buses was daunting.

  She was still pondering it as she came up to the front door. She rang the bell. Mrs. Dowd opened it and looked at her in surprise.

  “Mrs. Bainbridge, isn’t it?” she asked. “I’m sorry. I had no idea that you were coming.”

  “I apologize, Mrs. Dowd,” said Gwen. “I am here once again to deal with our mutual friend, Herbert.”

  “Herbert? What about him?”

  “I was visiting with Mister Trower just now, and he kindly offered to give Herbert to my son until—well, for the immediate future. If it’s not too much trouble, I would like to take him off your hands. Here is a note from Mister Trower explaining everything.”

  Mrs. Dowd took the note, then pulled a pair of reading glasses from her apron pocket and read it.

  “Well, that certainly takes the cake,” she said. “He must be giving up hope if he’s abandoning Herbert. Poor lad.”

  “His prospects don’t seem the best at the moment,” admitted Gwen. “We’ve been trying to
help him.”

  “You have? How?”

  “We’ve been looking into his case,” said Gwen.

  “Case? Are you a detective now?”

  “No, no, no,” laughed Gwen. “Just someone going around asking questions and investigating matters on a strictly informal level.”

  “Anything turn up?”

  “Unfortunately, nothing that will help Mister Trower. Hence my visit and subsequent mission to bring Herbert to his new home.”

  “Well, come in, then,” said Mrs. Dowd, holding open the door. “Funny thing is I’ll miss the little beggar. He turns out to be a good listener.”

  “That’s good. My son is quite the talker. They should get along famously.”

  They went upstairs to Trower’s room. Gwen looked at the fishbowl and thought about bumpy travels, sloshing water, and her dress. It all seemed a disaster waiting to happen.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a box of some kind that I could carry his bowl in, would you?” she asked.

  “I might,” said Mrs. Dowd. “Tell you what. Come down to the parlour. I’ll make you a cup of tea and you can sit while I rummage about. I think there’s something in the cellar that might do the trick, but I want to clean it up a bit before you hold it against that nice outfit of yours.”

  “That would be lovely, thank you.”

  * * *

  The cab pulled up at the prison gate. Iris paid the cabby with a tip that did not displease him and rushed in.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the guard at the visitors’ queue. “I was supposed to meet my friend Mrs. Bainbridge here. Do you know if she’s already gone in?”

  “Bainbridge, yes,” he said, consulting his list. “Visiting a Mister Trower.”

  “Excellent. Would it be possible for me to join them?’

  “Oh, no,” he said. “Only one visitor per prisoner per day.”

  “Then could I wait for her here?”

  “Well, she left, didn’t she?”

  “She did?”

  “She did.”

  “Blast. Did she by any chance say where she was going next?”

  “She thanked me and said good-bye, which was very polite of her.”