Hasty Death (6 page)

‘Nearly thirty. Yes, he is younger than I am, but I think I am young-looking for my age.’

‘Oh, yes, dear. Only the other day, the baker, Mr Jones said, “Where is your lovely daughter?” That’s just what he said. So you do not think it would be a good idea to
apprise the newspapers of what this Lady Rose is doing?’

‘No, Mother. I would not breathe a word to anyone apart from you. And you must swear you must not tell anyone either.’

‘There, there, girl. I swear,’ said Mrs Jubbles and crossed her fingers behind her back.

Harry had forgotten to tell Mr Drevey about Daisy’s prowess, the sick secretary had come back, and so Rose and Daisy were once more closeted together, typing out from the
entries in the ledgers.

Rose was becoming weary of her new life. All her initial enthusiasm had gone, bit by bit. She longed to have a bed of her own again and decent meals. Her pin-money had gone quickly on items
which Daisy had considered frivolous, such as an expensive vase for flowers and even more expensive flowers to put in it. Their wages had melted away on meals at Lyons, cosmetics, perfume that Rose
felt she must have and new gloves and various other little luxuries. The winter weather was horrible.

The pin-money she had brought to her new life had run out and their combined wages did not allow them any luxuries. She was tired of cooking cheap meals on the gas ring in their room, tired of
saving pennies for the gas meters, weary of the biting cold in this seemingly endless winter. She found that although Daisy did not like to read, she loved being read to, and so that was the way
they passed most of their evenings.

Her clothes were beginning to smell of cooking, and regular sponging down with benzene did not seem to help much. Their underclothes had to be washed out in the bathroom and then hung on a rack
before the gas fire. The sweat-pads from their blouses and dresses took ages to dry.

One morning Rose discovered a spot on her forehead. She could never remember having any spots on her face before.

She could only admire Daisy’s fortitude. Daisy never complained. Rose did not know that Daisy, after her initial rush of gratitude after their escape, was as miserable as she was.

Daisy was every bit as conscious of the rigid English class distinctions as Rose and was afraid that any complaint from her would be treated as the typical whining of the lower classes.

One morning, as they arrived for work, it began to snow. Small little flakes at first and then great feathery ones already speckled with the dirty soot of London.

By lunchtime, it was a raging blizzard.

‘We won’t even be able to get along to Lyons for lunch,’ mourned Rose, ‘and my back hurts with all this useless work.’

‘There’s a pie shop round the corner,’ said Daisy.

‘Oh, would you be a dear and get us something?’ said Rose. ‘I’ll see if there is anywhere here I can make tea. I think there is a kitchen upstairs next to the executive
offices. Take my umbrella.’

Daisy struggled out into the whirling snow. She bought two mutton pies and hurried back towards the office. A news-vendor was shouting, ‘Society murder. Read all about it!’

Daisy bought a paper and breathed a sigh of relief when she entered the bank and shut the door on the white hell outside.

‘I’ve got tea,’ said Rose when she entered the room. ‘There was no one upstairs. I’ll wait until they have gone this evening and smuggle the tea things back. Mrs
Danby won’t see me. She never even comes near us any more, and Captain Cathcart must have forgotten that we wanted real work.’

‘I’ve got the pies. Look at me coat,’ said Daisy. ‘Soaked already. We’ll never get home in this.’

‘Home,’ echoed Rose bleakly, thinking of that awful room.

‘Look, I bought the
Daily Mail.
There’s something about a society murder. Here’s your pie. You’ll need to eat it out of the newspaper wrapping. No
plates.’

Rose took a bite of the pie. ‘This is really good. We should buy another two to take home.’

‘I say!’ exclaimed Daisy. ‘You’ll never believe who’s gone and got himself murdered.’

‘Who?’

‘That Freddy Pomfret. Remember him? We met him at Telby Castle last year.’

‘So we did,’ said Rose.

‘It says here, “Man-about-town, the Honourable Mr Frederick Pomfret, was found shot dead in his town flat in St James.”’

As Daisy read on, Rose furrowed her brow. She remembered Freddy as vacuous and silly with his white face and patent leather hair. Hardly the man to incite anyone to murder him. But there was
something else, something about Freddy nagging at the back of her mind.

At the end of the working day, they went out into a white world. London had gone to sleep under a thick blanket of snow.

‘Let’s see if the underground is working,’ said Daisy. ‘The Central London Railway goes to Holborn and then we can walk home.’

They stumbled through white drifts to King William Street Station and took the hydraulic lift down to the platforms. Trains consisted of three carriages hauled by electric locomotives. These
were powered by the largest power-generating station in the country. The coaches were known as padded cells and they were long and narrow with high-backed cushioned seats and no windows. Gatemen
stood on platforms at the end of each carriage to call out the names of the stations.

They paid the two pennies each fare and waited in the crush until they managed to get on ‘the tube’, as it was known.

‘We should have travelled like this before,’ said Rose. ‘The omnibus is so slow. Why didn’t we think about it?’

‘I did,’ said Daisy. ‘But it frightens me to be so far underground with all them buildings on top of us.’

They got out at Holborn Station. The snow, which had eased a little when they left the office, had returned in all its ferocity. By the time they reached the hostel, they were cold and their
clothes were soaked.

Rose searched in her purse. ‘I have no pennies left. What about you?’

‘No, but I’ve found a way to fix it.’ Daisy crouched over the meter with an army knife bristling with gadgets and fiddled about with a thin blade until a penny rattled down and
then another.

‘Oh, Daisy, that’s robbery.’

‘That’s warmth,’ said Daisy cheerfully, dropping the coins back in, turning the dial and then lighting the small gas fire. They took off their wet clothes. Rose still felt
self-conscious at disrobing in front of Daisy, but Daisy had no such qualms. She stripped naked and then wrapped herself in a wool dressing-gown and began to hang her clothes in front of the fire.
Rose followed suit.

‘Have we anything to eat?’ she asked.

‘’Fraid not,’ said Daisy gloomily.

There was a knock at the door. Rose opened it a crack. Miss Harringey stood there. ‘A gentleman has called,’ she said, her voice heavy with disapproval.

‘Did he give a name?’

‘A Mr Jarvis.’

‘Tell him to wait and I will be down directly.’

Rose scrambled into dry clothes, leaving off the misery of stays, and hurried down the stairs.

Mr Jarvis stood in the hallway carrying a basket. ‘Mr Jarvis! How on earth did you get here in this dreadful weather?’ asked Rose.

‘I rode one of the big horses, one of the ones that pull the fourgon. Here are some things for you’ – he proffered the basket – ‘and here is a letter. Please do not
say anything. I think the lady of the house is listening. Good evening.’

He opened the street door and mounted the large shire-horse which was tethered outside, by dint of scraping snow off the low wall outside the house and using it as a mounting block.

Rose hurried upstairs. In the room, she opened the letter. It was from her mother, Lady Polly, to say that they had returned from Nice and would Rose please stop all this nonsense and come
home.

‘What’s in the basket?’ asked Daisy.

Rose lifted the cloth cover and gave a delighted cry. ‘Food! Oh, do look, Daisy. Game pie and wine and biscuits, cake, tea, coffee, and he’s even put in a bottle of milk. And there
are other things.’

Daisy laid two plates and two cups on the table along with the cheap knives and forks they had purchased. ‘We’ll need to drink the wine out of teacups.’

‘We haven’t a corkscrew.’

‘I have,’ said Daisy, producing the knife again and twisting a corkscrew out from among the many implements.

As their clothes steamed and the room warmed up, both began to feel more cheerful. ‘I know what it was,’ said Rose suddenly.

‘What?’

‘About Freddy Pomfret. When I was working as secretary, one of the clerks came in and said, “Mr Pomfret has very generous friends.” Mr Beveridge asked him what he meant and he
said, “Three people have paid large deposits into his account so we don’t need to send him any more letters about his overdraft.”’

‘Probably his relatives. But why didn’t they pay up before? What you getting at?’

Rose was about to correct Daisy’s grammar and remind her not to be so familiar but in time remembered that they were supposed to be on an equal footing.

‘There must be some reason he was murdered. What if he was blackmailing people?’

Daisy looked doubtful. She thought it highly unlikely. The Freddy she remembered was silly but not villainous. Still, if Rose’s detective urges had started up again, perhaps she would get
in touch with Captain Cathcart. Daisy had a fondness for the captain’s servant, Becket.

‘We could ask Captain Cathcart.’

‘Perhaps. I would like to see the books and then perhaps go to Scotland Yard and talk to Superintendent Kerridge.’

Daisy’s face fell. ‘Could we see the captain first?’

But Rose wanted to show the infuriating Harry that she could be a better detective than he was.

‘I’ll see what I can do tomorrow.’

‘If we can even get to work,’ Daisy pointed out.

The next morning was cold and still but the snow had stopped. As Rose and Daisy slipped and stumbled their way along to the underground station at Holborn, Rose wished she had
packed her riding breeches. These long skirts and petticoats were useless attire for getting to work through a snowfall.

The City was quiet, shrouded in a blanket of snow. They had to knock at the bank door to gain admittance. At last one of the clerks opened the door to them.

‘Nobody’s turned up except me,’ he said. ‘I keep the door locked because anyone could walk in and rob the bank. Charles, the doorman, hasn’t turned up and
he’s really got no excuse. He lives in the City. May I get you ladies anything? Tea?’

‘Maybe later,’ said Rose. ‘We’ll let you know. Thank you.’

Once they were in their office, Rose whispered, ‘This is a perfect opportunity. I’ll go upstairs to the counting-house and start searching.’

‘What about the banking hall?’

‘The records won’t be there. In any case, everything in the banking hall will be tightly locked.’

Daisy lit the fire and then waited impatiently. Outside, she could hear the scraping of shovels and then the swish of brooms as the street-sweepers got to work. A shaft of sunlight suddenly
shone down through the grimy window.

Then there came a banging at the front door. Daisy stayed where she was, nervously chewing at a thumbnail.

She heard the clerk running down the stairs. She stood up and opened the door of her office a crack. She heard the doorman complaining that he had a bad leg and it had taken him ages to struggle
through the snow and then a female voice. Mrs Danby. Oh, where was Rose?

An hour passed. Daisy was just about to go out and up the stairs in case Rose was in trouble when the door opened and Rose slipped in.

‘Where have you been?’ hissed Daisy.

Rose sank down in her chair. ‘It took me ages. But I’ve got some interesting information. Get on your coat and hat, Daisy. We’re
going
to Scotland Yard. I telephoned
Detective Superintendent Kerridge.’

‘But what about old Danby?’

‘We’ll just need to risk her not knowing we even turned up for work.’ They covered their typewriters and put on their coats, hats and gloves. Opening the door of their office,
they crept out. To their relief, they could hear the doorman complaining about his leg to someone in the banking hall off to the left of the main door.

‘Quickly,’ said Rose.

D
etective Superintendent Kerridge found he was looking forward to meeting Lady Rose again. After he had received her telephone call, he had in turn
phoned Captain Cathcart. It pleased him to think they would all be together again, as they had been during that investigation the previous year at Telby Castle.

Kerridge was a grey man: grey hair, grey eyebrows, heavy grey moustache. He stood at the window of his office looking out at the Thames, and while he waited, he wrapped himself in one of his
favourite dreams. In his mind he was a thinner, younger Kerridge manning the barricades at the People’s Revolution of England. ‘Down with the aristocrats!’ he yelled and his
supporters cheered. A beautiful young girl threw her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth. Kerridge blinked that part of the dream away. It was wrong to be unfaithful to his wife, even in
dreams.

The door opened and Inspector Judd ushered Harry Cathcart in. ‘What’s this all about?’ asked Harry.

‘I received a telephone call from Lady Rose. She says she has vital information concerning the death of Freddy Pomfret.’

‘I don’t know how she could have come by any information about society at all in her present occupation.’

‘Which is?’

‘I’d better see if she wants to tell you.’

The door opened again. ‘Lady Rose Summer and Miss Levine,’ announced Judd.

‘Your maid may wait outside,’ said the detective, who had met Daisy before.

‘Miss Levine is no longer my maid. She is my friend. She may stay.’

‘Where’s Becket?’ asked Daisy.

‘In Chelsea,’ said Harry. Daisy’s face fell.

‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Rose.

‘I was summoned by Mr Kerridge,’ said Harry, looking at Rose and thinking that a working life did not suit her. The hem of her coat was soaking from melted snow, her face was thinner
and her eyes tired.