The Mystery of the Clockwork Sparrow (16 page)

Sophie almost laughed. With all that had happened in the last few days, it seemed bizarre that she was being asked to attend a musical comedy.

But Lil seemed quite serious. ‘Do say you’ll come,’ she pleaded, looking uncharacteristically anxious. ‘Otherwise I won’t have anyone in the audience. My brother’s away, and I can’t invite my parents. They’d die a dozen deaths to see me part of a chorus line. But I can’t bear to be the only one of the girls without anyone watching. I’m certain I’d do much better if I knew you were there.’

Sophie was touched. ‘Of course I’ll be there,’ she said, feeling that she couldn’t let Lil down.

She was rewarded with a beaming smile. ‘Marvellous! I would say come round to the Stage Door afterwards and we could do something jolly, but I’ve got to go straight to Sinclair’s afterwards for this beastly opening party. Apparently the Captain wants all the mannequins there.’ She pulled a face, although Sophie suspected that really Lil thought the party would be anything but beastly. And who could blame her? Everyone knew that Mr Sinclair’s opening gala would be one of the social events of the year, and Sophie realised with a stab of disappointment that now she wouldn’t have the chance to see it for herself. But Lil was still talking: ‘Anyway, I’m awfully glad you can come to the show. I’ll get you the absolute best ticket I can!’ Her enthusiasm was infectious, and somehow, in spite of everything, Sophie found herself smiling as they left the park.

‘T
hat’s the last lot, Tom!’

‘About time too,’ complained one of the porters, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief after filling yet another van with an enormous load of boxes. It was midmorning on Friday, and already it had been a hectic day for the drivers and porters, as they tried to keep pace with the ever-increasing volume of deliveries, as more and more customers surged through the store.

‘They’ll be needing to take on more fellers, I reckon, if it keeps on at this rate,’ said George.

‘The Captain must be making a mint,’ said Tom.

‘Wish he’d send a bit more of it over my way,’ grumbled another porter. ‘I reckon we deserve a few bob extra, the pace we’re going at.’

George called out, ‘Billy! Tea!’

Billy came hurrying over from where he had been packing another van, just as one of the kitchen maids appeared with their morning tea. As they had taken to doing when the weather was fine, the drivers and porters drank their tea all together in the yard, standing about in little groups, or leaning against the wall, smoking. George usually sat on a chair and read the paper, commenting on whatever was in the news that day. This morning he had already covered Russian refugees and the British Navy’s new warships, which he was sure would prove to that Kaiser who was boss, and he was now shaking his head over the theft of the Captain’s jewels. Although the story was no longer making front-page news, the papers had not yet tired of speculating about who was behind it.

‘Now they’re saying it was immigrants. Or one of them criminal gangs,’ he said, scratching his chin pensively. ‘There’s a lot of that going on out east around the docks these days, or that’s what I hear.’

Billy wrapped his hands around his mug of tea, made very strong and sweet, and sipped appreciatively. ‘Have you ever heard of a gang run by someone called “the Baron”?’ he asked suddenly.

George nearly dropped his mug in astonishment. He pushed back his chair. ‘Blimey, what d’you want to go saying things like that for? Give me a heart attack, why don’t you?’

‘Wherever did a shrimp like you hear about the Baron?’ asked Tom, with a laugh.

Billy shrugged, trying to seem casual. ‘Oh, I just heard someone talking about him, and I wondered who he was.’

‘Listen, son, you don’t want to know nothing about the Baron,’ said George in a low, serious voice.

‘Oh, come off it, George,’ snorted one of the porters, flicking a cigarette end to the ground. ‘The Baron? He’s nothing but an old tale.’

‘There’s some good yarns about him though,’ said Tom. ‘Remember the one about the Limehouse Lads? That was one to make your hair stand on end, all right.’

‘Or the Bride of Hoxton? And what he did to her? Stuff of nightmares, that.’

‘All right, not in front of the boy,’ said George sharply. ‘You can keep your filthy stories for after hours. Come on, let’s get back to work. You come with me, lad,’ he said to Billy, who trailed after him obediently. ‘I’ll tell you the only thing you need to know about the Baron,’ George muttered as he did so. ‘You want to stay as far away from him as you can get.’

Billy headed back to work, an anxious feeling rising in his stomach as he realised that in just a couple of hours’ time, he and Lil were planning to do exactly the opposite.

Sinclair’s Marble Court Restaurant was a picture of perfect elegance. Waiters in white coats glided to and fro between the marble columns that gave the restaurant its name, bearing silver dishes and trays of crystal glasses. Beneath a ceiling adorned with a pattern of golden swirls and flourishes, there was the civilised buzz of conversation, the clinking of glasses, a pop as a champagne bottle was opened. The few faint rays of sunlight that crept in at the stained-glass windows sparkled on the diamonds of the American heiress who was holding a luncheon party for twenty on one side of the restaurant.

A handsome waiter bowed to Lil as she came through the door looking nervously around her for any sign of Gregson. She felt suddenly very conscious that her lawn tea-gown, and her best hat with the crimson poppies, which had seemed pretty enough in her own bedroom, were far too plain and ordinary for her surroundings. At least her frock was new: she had bought it at the store with her first pay packet, at the generous discount afforded to all the Captain’s Girls. And young Mr Pendleton certainly did not seem to object to her appearance. As a matter of fact, he leaped to his feet as soon as he saw her approaching, almost knocking over a vase of flowers in his eagerness.

As she took her seat, she glimpsed Billy across the room, very nearly hidden in a corner behind a large arrangement of hothouse flowers not far from the restaurant entrance. She guessed by the way he was glancing around that he hadn’t seen any sign of Gregson yet, either. She looked quickly away in case she drew attention to him, and flashed a charming smile at Mr Pendleton, whose face went purple with gratification. But even as she accepted the menu card from the waiter, she felt uneasy. Whether it was because they were watching for Gregson, or because she was worried about Sophie, or simply because of the opening night of the show that evening, she felt suddenly tense and twitchy with nerves.

All around her was a flurry of chatter:

‘Oh, Mama, must I really have that dreary mauve? The pink taffeta was so much prettier!’

‘Herbert Gladstone needs to come to his senses. This is an out and out threat! We are an island nation, for heaven’s sake – Germany is not. What possible reason could there be for them to have a naval force to match our own?’

‘Do try the oysters, old boy – they’re simply splendid. I say, waiter, more champagne, please.’

‘Well, you see, then the poor beast went lame, and I had to change horses, and –’ Pendleton was talking too. He had begun telling an incredibly long story about a recent hunting party. Lil nodded and smiled, as if she was listening, but really her attention was fixed breathlessly on the figure that was even now striding past Pendleton’s shoulder. It was Sergeant Gregson – she recognised his round spectacles and bushy moustache. He was really here!

He settled himself at a table just out of her eyeline, and she leaned slightly to one side to see him a little better. He was sitting alone, fiddling with the menu card nervously. She had never really thought of someone like Gregson being nervous, but then, being secretly on the Baron’s payroll was probably a rather worrying business. She leaned over a little further and accidentally knocked her butter knife off the edge of the table, sending it skittering across the floor.

‘Are you all right, Miss Rose?’ asked Pendleton anxiously as a waiter swiftly whisked away the knife and replaced it with a clean one.

‘Oh yes, of course. I’m so sorry Mr Pendleton, I was so busy listening to you that I didn’t notice what I was doing!’ she laughed, her cheeks flushing, trying to conceal her annoyance. Now she’d have to pay attention to this tedious hunting story and she wouldn’t be able to get a decent look at Gregson. But even as she turned back towards Pendleton, there was a sudden bubble of movement and noise by the lifts. Across the room, heads swivelled to look, and all at once she realised why: it was none other than the Captain himself who had strolled into the restaurant, elegant in his morning suit, a cream-coloured orchid in his buttonhole.

‘So that’s Edward Sinclair?’ said Pendleton, a little too loudly. ‘He’s quite a fellow, isn’t he?’

Lil watched with interest as Sinclair nodded to several of the gentlemen diners, gave a gallant bow to a lady in furs, and paused to say a word to the head waiter. There were two men with him who must be journalists, she realised: one was scribbling in a notebook, the other, a rather jolly-looking chap, was manoeuvring a big camera. Behind them was the prim young woman who she recognised as Miss Atwood, Sinclair’s private secretary. Lil remembered her from her interview with Mr Sinclair. She’d sat to one side, reluctantly holding the Captain’s little dog on her very rigid knees.

‘I’ve never imagined Sinclair’s as merely a store,’ Lil heard Sinclair saying to one of the journalists as he passed by, lines of waiters bowing on all sides. ‘It’s not just a shop – it’s a cathedral, a museum.’ He made a sweeping gesture that encompassed everything around him, whilst the young journalist scribbled faster in his notebook, evidently determined to capture every word. ‘Sinclair’s is a monument to style and elegance, beauty and charm. It is . . . a civic centre. Somewhere people can meet and mingle. An escape from the humdrum, the everyday. A place to
dream
.’

‘Mr Sinclair, if I could just ask you . . .’ the journalist was saying, his voice fading away as they passed out of their earshot, whilst the photographer struggled behind him with his bulky camera equipment. As they went by, Lil glanced up and caught her breath. Whilst everyone had been looking at Sinclair, a man had appeared across the table from Sergeant Gregson, although from where she was sitting, there was no way she could get a proper look at his face.

She took a deep breath. ‘Would you please excuse me for a moment, Mr Pendleton?’ she asked, and without waiting for a reply, she got up from her chair and went quickly across the room towards the Ladies’ Cloakroom. Once there, she doubled back and ducked behind the hothouse flowers beside Billy. He was holding tight to an envelope with her own name on it, which they had agreed he would bring in case he needed to explain to anyone what he was doing in the restaurant.

‘I say – do you think that’s him?’ she demanded at once.

‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed furiously, spinning around.

‘I couldn’t see properly from our table,’ she shrugged. ‘Anyway I needed a break from Pendleton. He keeps going on and on about hunting. Deadly dull.’ She peered around the flowers once more. ‘I tell you what, though, the roast chicken with truffles looks tremendous. Well, is that really him, do you think?’

They both gazed across the room towards Gregson’s table. The man they could see sitting opposite him certainly looked nothing like the East End criminal Joe had led them to expect, although there was no doubt that he stood out amongst the other gentlemen who were lunching in the restaurant. Tall, powerfully built and dressed with careless extravagance, he cut an imposing figure. He had a thick mane of black hair streaked with white. From across the room, they caught the gleam of a silver-topped cane, the glint of several heavy rings on his fingers and the sheen of a violet silk scarf. He was leaning over the table, his dark eyes fixed firmly on Sergeant Gregson, who was listening to him in what was evidently respectful silence. But looking at the expression on Gregson’s face, Lil felt certain that the Sergeant wasn’t just being respectful – he was frightened. His eyes never left the Baron’s. He looked as though he was being hypnotised.

‘He’s really bending Gregson’s ear, isn’t he?’ she said, fascinated. ‘Do you think we could get any closer? It’s jolly infuriating not being able to hear what he’s saying.’

‘We’re not supposed to be doing anything to draw attention to ourselves, remember?’ said Billy, sternly.

‘Oh very well. But if we’re not careful this will have been an awful waste of time. We haven’t heard a word of their conversation.’ She fell silent for a moment and then said: ‘I suppose I ought to go back before Pendleton starts wondering where I’ve gone.’

‘All right,’ said Billy, not really listening, his eyes still fixed on Gregson.

Lil slipped out of his corner and strolled back casually in the direction of Mr Pendleton’s table. Billy watched as she passed close by the photographer, who had now set up his camera and was taking some pictures of Mr Sinclair sitting at his table. He saw Sinclair look up and point to her as she approached. For a moment Billy felt horrified that she had been discovered, but then, as the photographer beckoned to her, he relaxed. Before he knew it, Lil was posing beside one of the statues and smiling prettily for the camera.
So much for not drawing attention to herself
, Billy thought. As he watched, she laughed at something the photographer said, and then struck another pose. Across the restaurant, Mr Pendleton was watching too. His soup had arrived and he was spooning it glumly into his mouth.

The Baron was on his feet now, addressing a final pointed word to Sergeant Gregson. Then he turned and stalked away, leaving Gregson looking uneasily after him.

On the other side of the room, the photographer was shaking Lil’s hand. ‘Thank you, Miss Rose, you’ve been a tremendous help,’ he said with a grin. ‘Those shots are just what I needed. We can’t have a picture story about Sinclair’s without one of Sinclair’s famous mannequins, after all. Look out for the story in the next day or two.’ He paused for a moment, then added, more seriously: ‘You’ve a real talent for photographic work. I don’t just work for
The Daily Picture
you know – I’ve my own studio and I do postcards, that sort of thing. I’m always on the look out for good models. It’s paid work, of course, perfectly above board and respectable.’