The Right Sort of Man

by Allison Montclair

  “Look,” said Gwen, tugging on Iris’s arm.

  A man got out of the cab, looked at the press platform which was now being disassembled, then trudged disconsolately back to the cab.

  “That was Gareth Pontefract of the Mirror, wasn’t it?” observed Gwen.

  “It was,” said Iris, smiling happily. “And that makes the day complete.”

  * * *

  Gwen strode into the library without knocking. Lady Carolyne looked up at her askance.

  “I wanted to let you know that I’m going to be in the papers again,” said Gwen.

  “Not the Mirror,” sighed Lady Carolyne.

  “Maybe not the Mirror this time. But all the rest. And the newsreels.”

  “What? What did you do?”

  “We solved the murder. We proved it was someone other than Dickie Trower. We walked him out of Brixton Prison today into a full field of reporters. Our company’s name has been restored. More important, an innocent man has been exonerated and freed, and we were the ones who made that happen. Most important of all—I was right.”

  Lady Carolyne gaped at her, which gave Gwen immense satisfaction. She turned crisply on her heel and walked out.

  * * *

  There were more reporters gathered in front of their building when Iris and Gwen arrived the next morning. Mister MacPherson stood in the entrance, watching them warily. After graciously answering a multitude of questions and posing for photographs, the two women escaped to the safety of their office.

  “I’m not paid to be a bouncer!” MacPherson called up after them.

  “We’ve been meaning to speak to you about the security here,” replied Iris, peering down at him over the railing. “We have some concerns. Drop by later, if you don’t mind.”

  The telephone was already ringing when they went into the Right Sort. Iris plucked the receiver from its cradle before she even reached her chair.

  “The Right Sort Marriage Bureau, Iris Sparks here.”

  “Oh, Miss Sparks!” cried a woman’s voice. “I just saw the Telegraph! How marvelous!”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” agreed Iris. “To whom am I speaking?”

  “It’s Miss Sedgewick. I am so sorry about my little overreaction the other morning. Can you forgive me?”

  “You are forgiven,” said Iris, rolling her eyes at Gwen. “It was certainly understandable.”

  “Tell me,” continued Miss Sedgewick. “Is Mister Trower still your client?”

  “He is.”

  “Is he still available?”

  “He’s been in solitary confinement for a week, so I expect so.”

  “Good. You must set us up immediately.”

  “Are you certain? Only a few days ago, you suspected him of murder.”

  “I know! Isn’t it exciting? Let me know the moment he accepts! Bye!”

  She hung up without waiting for Iris’s reply.

  “Who was that?” asked Gwen.

  “Bitsy Sedgewick. She wants an introduction to Mister Trower. Just when I thought there would be no more surprises this week.”

  The telephone rang again.

  “Right Sort—oh, hello, Miss Blake. Yes? Dickie Trower? I’m afraid that there is one person already ahead of you, but I can—yes, I will add you to the list. Will do. Good-bye.”

  She hung up, then grabbed her pad and started writing. The telephone rang again. This time, a gentleman sought to make an appointment to sign up.

  The morning proved to be quite busy. They passed the telephone back and forth between desks, taking shifts answering. By lunchtime, they were exhausted and extremely happy, and the list of women interested in Dickie Trower had grown to seven names.

  “We need a secretary,” said Gwen thoughtfully. “And more space.”

  “I think you’re right,” said Iris.

  “Well, don’t ask me,” said Sally, standing in the doorway.

  “How do you move so silently?” asked Gwen.

  “Practice, practice, practice,” he said. “Catlike tread and all that.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want the job?” asked Iris. “You already have experience and training.”

  “It was fine when this was a failing business,” he said, coming in. “But now that you’re such booming successes, the position sounds like it’s going to require actual work, and I’m not cut out for that. I shall continue to be on call for collections and the odd consultation.”

  “Thank you, Sally,” said Iris. “You’ve been a lifesaver. Quite literally in my case.”

  “I have come to bring you these,” he said, depositing a pile of newspapers on her desk. “I think that’s all of them. Some are worth framing. And if I may offer my own meager accomplishment in the midst of basking in your twinned radiances—I have finished my play!”

  “Bravo!” applauded Gwen. “When may we see it?”

  “Well, I need to have an informal reading next,” he said. “A gathering of voices in my parlour so that I may hear it out loud. I’d like to ask the two of you to participate.”

  “I’d love to,” said Iris. “Strictly a reading, though. I won’t be enacting any love scenes this time.”

  “More’s the pity,” he said. “Mrs. Bainbridge?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Gwen hesitantly. “I’m no actress.”

  “That ain’t so, and you know it, Sophie,” said Iris.

  “It’s not in front of an audience,” said Sally. “Only a few select friends. Please say that you will.”

  “All right,” said Gwen. “Don’t hold me to the high standards of you two.”

  “You’ll be wonderful,” he promised. “Ta ta, detectives.”

  He vanished soundlessly out of the hall.

  “He must have been fearsome behind the lines,” said Gwen.

  “Yes.”

  “You calling me Sophie reminded me. I need to make a call.”

  The telephone rang again as she reached for it. She answered, then handed it over to Iris.

  “It’s a gentleman,” she said. “He would not state his name.”

  “Curious,” said Iris. “Hello. Sparks, here.”

  “’Allo, Mary Elizabeth McTague,” said Archie.

  Iris clutched the receiver in a spasm of surprise and fear.

  “Hello,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

  “Well, I find myself in an unexpectedly peculiar position, given what I’ve been reading in the papers the past two days.”

  “What position is that?”

  “I am still at liberty. Completely unarrested. And given that a couple of people very well known to me are not, I am puzzled by that. I am also puzzled that my newest employee, Mary Elizabeth McTague, ’asn’t turned snitch when she was never legit to start with.”

  “I had no interest in seeing you go to jail if you didn’t kill Tillie. You asked for my loyalty when I worked for you. I gave it. And I hear that the Yard and the Ministry of Finance want to keep the prosecution of Pilcher hush-hush, given how embarrassing it is that their prize man went rogue. Anything he can say against you is automatically suspect. They’ll settle for him and the recovery of the stolen plates.”

  “How were you sure it wasn’t me who killed Tillie? Even I’d suspect me, and I like me.”

  “A small detail. She was stabbed in the heart. It didn’t sound like your style. You said you prefer to slit throats.”

  “Oh, that’s rich,” he said, laughing. “So, we’re good, you and me?”

  “We’re good. But I would like to take this opportunity to tender my resignation from your organization, Boss. It was fun to be a spiv for a day, but I have my own business to run.”

  “I might ’ave some work for you.”

  “I told you—”

  “It’s me nephew. Bernie’s not in the game, ’as a proper upbringing and education, and wants to be a school teacher. We don’t know any girls decent enough for ’im, and he trips over his tongue ’alf the time when ’e meets them on ’is own. So, I thoug
ht I’d send ’im your way.”

  “By all means.”

  “And I’m sending a couple of boxes with him in my appreciation for what you’ve done, one for you, one for Sophie.”

  “I’m not sure that we should—”

  “Stockings, Miss Sparks. Ten pairs for each of you.”

  “Well, it would be churlish to turn them down under the circumstances. How did you know Gwen’s size?”

  “I ’ave a knack for these things.”

  “You should become a hosier when you grow up.”

  “Always thought that would be an enjoyable profession, me being a leg man and all. Speaking of which—seeing as you and Rog ain’t a thing, ’ow about you and me step out some night? I know a place with a good dance floor and a decent band.”

  “Legal?”

  “Not completely. Interested?”

  “All right, Archie.”

  “Friday night?”

  “It’s a date. I’ll see you then.”

  She hung up. Gwen was staring at her.

  “Did you just accept a date with Archie?” she asked.

  “I thought it might be fun.”

  Gwen shook her head in disbelief, then wrote something on her notepad.

  “I’m usually the craziest person in the room at any given moment,” she said, tearing the sheet off and handing it to Iris. “The exception seems to be when I’m alone with you. This is my psychiatrist’s name and number. Do the world a favour and call him.”

  “Why? I feel fine.”

  “You, my friend, like to put yourself at risk. Now, I have been right there with you these past several days, but that’s over and done with. Yet here you are, agreeing to date a gangster who could turn on you in a second if he suspects you of being an informant.”

  “I don’t think he will,” said Iris. “And I’ve dated worse.”

  “Please. For my sake.”

  “Very well, since you said please. We should have our appointments back-to-back. We could make a date of it—therapy, then drinks after.”

  “That does sound like fun,” said Gwen. “Let’s do that.”

  “You said you wanted to make a call?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Gwen. “Pass me the telephone, would you?”

  * * *

  It was evening when she walked into the Town of Ramsgate pub on Wapping High Street. She looked around expectantly as the roar of voices subsided while the male patrons checked her out. Then she saw him, sitting in a corner. He met her eye, but gave no other sign of welcome.

  She walked up to him.

  “Hello, Des,” she said softly.

  “You called,” he said. “I didn’t think you would.”

  “I said that I would take a walk with you.”

  “Sophie said that,” he said. “You’re not Sophie.”

  “No. My name is Gwen Bainbridge.”

  “I know. I read the story. And you’re not a ladies’ maid. You’re an actual lady.”

  “I never gained the title. My husband was killed before inheriting it.”

  “So the dead ’usband was true.”

  “Most of what I said was true.”

  “Makes the lie work better, right?”

  “Des, could we take that walk, please?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I am. I’d rather talk while we’re walking.”

  “I doubt a lady’s shoes are right for walking around—”

  She stood back where he could see her feet.

  “I brought my wellies this time,” she said. “They don’t flatter my legs, but you said we could see the Tower Bridge.”

  “Come on,” he said, taking her by the arm.

  They walked out the back exit. There was a stair next to the pub going down to the river.

  “This is an old stair,” he said as he led her down it. “It goes back centuries. They say girls useter kiss their sailor lads good-bye ’ere and swear to be true until they returned.”

  “And were they true? Did the sailors come back?”

  “Who knows?” he said with a shrug. “It’s a nice story. Gets an occasional kiss out of a girl if a lad brings ’er to the stairs.”

  They reached the banks of the Thames. He led her to the edge.

  “You can’t see the entire bridge, but there it is,” he said.

  She could see half of the bridge. One of the towers, the one further from the City of London, partly blocked the setting sun.

  “Shall we walk a little farther?” she asked.

  “What are we doing?” he replied. “What is there to talk about? You made a bloody fool out of me.”

  “I didn’t mean to. We didn’t mean to. We weren’t trying to hurt anyone.”

  “No, but you weren’t exactly trying not to ’urt anyone, were you?”

  “There was an innocent man in prison. We were trying to save him.”

  “And it turned out to ’ave nothing to do with any of us, did it?” he said.

  “No. But we didn’t know that when we began.”

  “What about me? I was never one of your suspects. I poured my ’eart out to you, and you were only pumping me for information. I liked you. Or I liked Sophie. I don’t know anymore.”

  “You’re a decent, kind man, Des, and I’m sorry if I left you with the impression that there could be anything between us.”

  “Because I’m not good enough for the likes of you.”

  “Des, you may very well be too good for the likes of me,” she said. “I have a son.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “You do.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what’s ’is title?”

  “He is a future lord, which doesn’t matter to me one jot, but it matters to my husband’s parents. They have legal custody of him, and I am about to go to war in the courts to get him back. I am outfinanced, outgunned, and outnumbered, and I cannot do anything that will jeopardize my already tenuous position. Which means as much as I would like to, I can’t have—I can’t get involved with anyone right now.”

  He looked across the water.

  “How old is ’e?”

  “Six. He is the light of my life, and I won’t lose him.”

  “I’ve always wanted a boy,” said Des. “Someone to teach the trade to, like my dad taught me.”

  “I know you’ll be a wonderful father, Des,” said Gwen. “I mean that, I truly do.”

  “Can’t do it alone,” he said.

  “You know that Fanny adores you,” said Gwen.

  “Of course, I know that Fanny adores me,” he said angrily. “If I wanted Fanny, I would be with Fanny, not wasting time on some posh—”

  “If it wasn’t for Ronnie, I would be saying yes to the next date, Des,” said Gwen.

  “You almost sound like you mean it,” he said, finally looking at her.

  “If you knew me better, you would have no doubt of it.”

  “Will it take long?” he asked. “This court battle?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t want you to pin your hopes on me, Des. Find someone else.”

  “Then that’s it,” he said heavily. “Let me walk you back to the station.”

  They turned away from the river and walked to the foot of the stairs.

  “Might I kiss you?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid that would only make this worse,” she said.

  “I suppose it would.”

  “So let’s make it worse,” said Gwen.

  He wasn’t like Ronnie. He felt different pressed against her. He held her differently, and his scent was one of sweat and traces of oak and pine and others she couldn’t identify. And his mouth—he was slow and questing and questioning, and she found herself turning the aggressor, craving him, seizing him, and pulling him to her, wanting it to go on and on until the river rose around them, carrying them both away from this wretched, terrible city.

  She could not have said after how long it lasted, only that it lasted, and then it ended, it had to end w
hether they wanted it to or not. She rested her head against his shoulder, clinging to him, trembling.

  “I can’t say anything,” she said. “Any words now will only be polite or stupid or completely inadequate.”

  “You don’t need to say anything,” he said. “I’ll take you to the station.”

  She walked up the steps ahead of him. There was a moment where she stumbled on the wet stone and he caught her by the waist and steadied her, but that was all there was.

  * * *

  She took care to reapply her lipstick before she returned to Kensington Court.

  Dinner had passed. She had no appetite for it. She went up to find Ronnie. He was in his playroom, drawing. She plopped herself down on the floor next to him.

  “I have a son who is very topsy-turvy, for he plays in the drawing room and draws in his playroom,” she said, giving him a kiss. “How go the exciting adventures of Sir Oswald, the heroic narwhal?”

  “He’s fighting a Nazi U-boat,” said Ronnie. “He’s poking holes in it with his tusk. It’s very difficult, because he has to dodge torpedoes at the same time.”

  “I’m certain that he’ll win in the end,” said Gwen.

  “Mummy? Did the playroom look like this when Daddy was a boy?”

  “I don’t know,” said Gwen. “You would have to ask some of the older servants.”

  “Or Grandmother,” said Ronnie. “But she’s been in a bad mood. Is it because Grandfather has been away in Africa for so long?”

  “That could be it,” said Gwen. “I’m sure that you would be the best one to cheer her up. Will you remember to do that tomorrow?”

  “Yes, Mummy.”

  “You are a wonderful boy. Now, you may draw until it’s time for bed, but don’t give Agnes any difficulties when she comes to get you ready.”

  “Will you come give me a kiss good-night?”

  “Of course, my darling.”

  She left him to his work.

  It was strange to think of the playroom as being her husband’s twenty odd years ago. She had seen photographs of him at that age, but they were all formal poses in exquisite velvet suits. Her Ronnie had a mischievous side—there must have been much galloping about and play-fighting in that room, but he never mentioned it. Only his secret place in the attic.