A Rogue's Company, page 11
Maybe I am dangerous, she thought.
The idea did not displease her.
As she turned onto her street, she noticed a gardener trimming the hedges in front of one of the houses on the opposite side. He was black, and her thoughts turned to Mr. Daile.
Now, now, Gwen, she admonished herself. Just because he is of the same colour and profession doesn’t mean …
But the gardener saw her looking at him. As she drew nearer, he smiled broadly and lifted his cap. It was Mr. Daile.
“Mrs. Bainbridge, it is you!” he exclaimed in delight. “I thought it might be you, but then I thought, ‘No, Simon, just because you see a tall, blond English lady doesn’t mean she’s the same tall, blond English lady,’ but it is you! How did you know I was working here? Have you come with news of a potential match for me already?”
“Hardly, Mr. Daile,” she said. “I had no idea you were working in this vicinity.”
“Then what brings you here?”
“I live here. Across the street in Number Eleven.”
“No! How extraordinary!” he said, laughing. “Such an immense city, and we encounter each other like this.”
“Are you the Stillmans’ gardener now?”
“No, I work for a service,” he said, replacing his cap. “Very few London houses have full-time gardeners anymore. I trim the hedges, cut the grass, then move on to the next one. Do you have a gardener at Number Eleven?”
“Not since before the war, I’m afraid,” said Gwen. “The house in the country has four, I think, but all we grow here are vegetables and herbs like good patriotic Londoners should.”
“Have you a hothouse?”
“We do. I’d love for us to get in some flowers again.”
“That will be a sign that the war is truly over,” he said. He glanced at his watch. “It appears that I have reached the end of today’s labours. I’ll have to return tomorrow. It was an unexpected pleasure, Mrs. Bainbridge.”
He peeled off his work gloves and held out his hand. She shook it. He walked over to where a motorcycle was parked by the side of the road and placed his shears, cap, and gloves in a basket on the back that had rakes and a hoe sticking up from it, a red streamer tied to the latter.
“Is that yours?” she asked. “I thought I heard a motorcycle around here.”
“My baby,” he said, patting it proudly. “A 1933 Royal Enfield. I bought it when I came to Harper Adams, and it waited patiently under a tarpaulin in a shed there until I returned. It was a joyous reunion.”
He traded his cap for a leather helmet, straddled the seat, and pulled down his goggles.
“Very dashing, don’t you think?” he said. “Maybe I will wear them for my first date.”
“I’ll add that to your information,” said Gwen. “We have a few girls who would fancy riding on that.”
“Perfect,” he said. “I look forward to meeting them. Good day, Mrs. Bainbridge.”
He started the engine, paused as a dark blue Rolls-Royce Wraith pulled out into the street, then drove away.
Small world indeed, thought Gwen. But not that small.
She couldn’t shake the sense that he was spying on her.
She walked inside, and Percival met her in the entry hall.
“Was that my father-in-law leaving as I came up?” she asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Bainbridge. He is going to his club.”
“Were there any scenes before he left?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Bainbridge.”
“I mean, Percival, does anyone here need comforting from me at the moment? Start with my son, then work your way through the household.”
“There were no incidents, Mrs. Bainbridge,” he said in a low tone. “I cannot say that comfort would be unwelcome in some quarters.”
“Thank you, Percival,” she said, removing her hat. “I’ll make the rounds.”
* * *
Iris awoke early on Friday morning and made herself some oatmeal, sprinkling a precious teaspoon of sugar on it as an end-of-the-week treat. She eyed the whisky bottle with longing, but left it untouched.
The weather was already uncomfortably hot. She had sweated through the night, so she rubbed herself down with a wet washcloth, then dressed in a light blue rayon suit, adding a jabot collar for a touch of frill. She chose her brightest red lipstick, then walked out to face her enemy.
It wasn’t very far out of the way from her flat in Marylebone to the Livingstone Club. Fitzrovia was the neighbourhood adjacent to the east. She walked south on Welbeck, then turned left on Wigmore Street. The sun was just up, and the milkmen and bakery lorries were making their deliveries. There was not much automobile traffic otherwise, petrol supplies being what they were. Other pedestrians were headed to tube and bus stops, mostly going south. Iris kept a brisk pace, swinging her arms occasionally to loosen herself up, and in less than fifteen minutes arrived at Tottenham Court Road.
Right here, left on Bayley, straight on to the private park, and break in, she thought. Use the protective cover of the foliage to come within a safe distance of your target. Bravely stare it down from behind a bush. Then see if you can walk to Mayfair without dashing into the nearest pub.
Fortunately, no pubs would be open that time of morning.
Although there was one not-so-legal joint she knew of …
Courage, Iris.
She went south, then turned left on Bayley.
It’s only a building, she thought. It has neither tongue nor memory. There is no reason—
A man standing at the entrance to Morwell Street saw her and looked at her in surprise. Her immediate impulse was to turn on her heel and run, but he had already recognised her. There was nothing for it but to brazen it out.
“Sparks,” said Detective Sergeant Michael Kinsey. “What on earth are you doing here this time of morning? Or anywhere this time of morning?”
“Taking my constitutional on the way to work,” said Sparks. “It’s the new me. Hello, Mike. Or should I address you formally, Detective Sergeant? Are you working, Detective Sergeant Mike? Or moonlighting as a watchman?”
“Working,” said Kinsey.
“Ah. What sort of case? Oh!”
A pair of constables emerged from the street, carrying a stretcher. On it, a sheet covered a body.
“Sorry you had to see that,” said Kinsey, glancing at it as they placed it in a waiting lorry.
“Murder?”
“Pending the autopsy and official pronouncement at the inquest, yes,” said Kinsey.
“And is your boss here as well?”
“Detective Superintendent Parham has been and gone,” said Kinsey. “Leaving me behind to do the hard work.”
“Tell him I said hello.”
“I will,” said Kinsey. “He told me that you and Mrs. Bainbridge solved another murder or two while I was away. He was reluctantly impressed.”
“Not enough to offer me a job, but that’s all right,” said Sparks.
“Would you want to work there? You’ve never been one for following orders.”
“True enough. My goodness, I can’t believe anyone would murder anyone in this neighbourhood. It’s so déclassé.”
“You’re a snob, Sparks,” said Kinsey. “Murder goes everywhere. Anyhow, he wasn’t killed here. Someone wrapped his body in a blanket and dumped it after the fact. There’s no blood splatter from the bullets—”
“He was shot?”
“Twice.”
“And nobody heard anything?”
“Nobody called it in. The porter at the Livingstone Club found him when he was bringing in the dustbins.”
“Who was the poor sod?”
“We don’t know yet. No wallet, no ident card of any kind.”
“A robbery, perhaps?”
“Maybe, but my instincts say no. He was searched too thoroughly, and a robber wouldn’t take the trouble to drag him here. Plus, he was a largish bloke—it would have taken more than one man to do it—what? Why are you smiling like that?”
“I’ve forgotten how much fun it is to hear you talk shop,” said Sparks. “You really are meant for this work, Mike.”
“Thanks. You once told me it was the worst pillow talk ever, as I recall.”
“I was teasing, and you knew that,” said Sparks. “But it’s especially nice to hear you talk like that to me now. It makes me feel as if you’ve forgiven me finally.”
“I’ve put many things behind that were in the past, Sparks,” he said. “I’m a married man now, aren’t I?”
“You are indeed. And congratulations. How was the wedding?”
“Smallish. Teddy was my best man, both families attended, not too many friends. We honeymooned at Cornwall.”
“Never been there, but I hear it’s lovely. Well, I should leave you to this. What’s next?”
“I’m waiting for the photographer to come back with a picture of his face for me to start showing around,” said Kinsey. “Thought I’d start with the staff at the Livingstone Club.”
“Why them?”
“Well, he was black, wasn’t he? Oh, you didn’t see him. Black, looked African to me as opposed to Caribbean or American, although that’s as far as my expertise in distinguishing national origins goes. His suit wasn’t English-made, although there weren’t any labels to say where it came from.”
“That’s odd. Removed to throw you off?”
“Maybe. So I’ll start with the African expats. It’s not a large community. Someone might know him. Or at least be able to narrow down where he came from.”
“Good luck. I’d best be getting to the office. It was nice to see you, despite the circumstances.”
“Yes, it’s not the job for casual socialising,” he said. “Funny seeing you around here. Got me thinking that this is the neighbourhood where that Spanish fellow I had seen you with used to live. The one who turned up dead in the alley in Brixton.”
“Is it?” asked Sparks, willing herself to remain cool. “I never knew exactly where that was.”
“You put things in the past behind, too, eh?”
“I’m working on it. The past is getting bigger all the time.”
“That case was never solved,” said Mike, giving her a hard look. “Maybe we’ll catch a break in it someday. It’s bound to happen.”
“It’s bound to,” she said lightly. “Maybe the murderer will return to the scene of the crime.”
“Only the stupid ones do that,” he said.
“I wouldn’t know. See you around, Detective Sergeant.”
“Goodbye, Sparks.”
She walked on towards the park, forcing herself not to look back at him. It wasn’t until she made the turn and was safely out of his sight that she allowed herself to start breathing hard, pausing by the park fence to hold on to one of the wrought-iron bars until she could bring her nerves back under control.
It wasn’t until she was in Mayfair that she realised she had never once looked at the damn club.
* * *
“Good morning,” said Gwen as she came in, unpinning her hat and placing it on the coatrack by Iris’s. “And a happy Friday to you.”
“Is it a happy one for you?” asked Iris. “Tonight’s the dinner party, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Gwen. “Hopefully, the chicken fairy will swoop in in ample time for Prudence to marinate. Apart from that, all I have to do is show up in a nice frock, make pretty small talk, and try not to look as bored as I’ll feel.”
“Sounds dreadful.”
“Are you going out with Archie tonight?”
“No. He has something going on tonight, and I’ve learned not to ask for details. I’ll stay home, wash my hair, and curl up with a book and a tumbler.”
Gwen sat down at her desk and glanced at her letters, then placed them back, a troubled look on her face.
“What’s bothering you?” asked Iris.
“How do you feel about coincidences?” asked Gwen. “Accidental encounters between people who would be unlikely to meet in a city this large?”
“How on earth did you know?” exclaimed Iris.
“Know what?”
“About my running into— Wait, are you talking about yourself?”
“I was trying to.”
“Sorry, sorry, I had a coincidence of my own, coincidentally, but tell me about yours.”
“Mr. Daile,” said Gwen. “I saw him.”
“Where?”
“Clipping a hedge down the block from our home.”
“Really? Did you speak to him?”
“Of course. He claimed to be as surprised as I was. He thought I was coming to relay the name of his first date from The Right Sort.”
“Maybe we should try that for select clients. Make it part of a deluxe package, complete with heralds with trumpets tootling the news to the lucky recipients.”
“We can barely afford a secretary, and you want to bring trumpets into it?”
“We could do it once for a publicity stunt. Invite the press. I think it would be worth the investment.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Gwen. “Here’s the problem: I don’t think Mr. Daile was telling the truth about why he was there, and that makes twice in two encounters. What’s disturbing is that he’s now been at both my place of business and my home.”
“It’s not that much of a stretch. You live in a neighbourhood that has gardens galore.”
“I think he’s stalking me, Iris.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
“That’s what troubles me. I can’t think of any connection between us, unless it’s something to do with my father-in-law.”
“He did know about the Bainbridge holdings.”
“But Bainbridge, Limited, is a major name in that part of the world. Am I to assume that every African I meet has something to do with Harold?”
“You were looking for possible explanations. That may be one.”
“It’s my ridiculous upbringing making me like this,” said Gwen fretfully. “How long do you think it will be before we get a response from your letter to his university?”
“With luck, maybe Monday or Tuesday. Do you think he’s dangerous?”
“I didn’t have that sense of him,” said Gwen. “Although those shears looked rather menacing. I was quite relieved I wasn’t a hedge.”
“Very well. Let’s keep his marital prospects on hold until we get that letter. Now, I must tell you that I, too, have had a random encounter of cosmic proportions on the way to work this morning. None other than Detective Ex!”
“Really? You ran into Mike Kinsey? Where?”
“He was investigating a murder. The body was found on Morwell Street.”
“In Fitzrovia?”
“The same.”
“How shocking. Who was killed?”
“They don’t know yet. Some poor African fellow—”
She stopped, and they looked at each other.
“You don’t suppose—” began Gwen.
“That it was our Mr. Daile?” finished Iris. “That would be stretching coincidence beyond its breaking point.”
They looked at each other some more.
“Of course, it wouldn’t hurt to call and make sure he’s all right,” said Gwen, digging through her file box. “I’ll get his number.”
She handed the card over.
“Odd,” Iris said as she dialed. “I have the feeling I know that number from somewhere. Hello? I’m trying to reach Mr. Simon Daile. He gave us this number. Are you his landlady? How do you do? Is he in?”
She listened for a moment while Gwen tried unsuccessfully to pick up the response on the other end of the line.
“He did? Of course, it would be that time. No, it’s nothing urgent. Please let him know that Miss Sparks called from the agency with a question. He could call me back on Monday. That’s fine. Thank you.”
She hung up.
“Well?” asked Gwen.
“Mr. Daile left for work at eight fifteen this morning,” she said. “The body I saw was already dead by then.”
“I’m glad he’s all right,” said Gwen with a sigh of relief.
“A minute ago, you thought he was stalking you. Now, you’re happy he’s alive.”
“Apart from the stalking and the lying, he seems a nice enough person,” said Gwen. “I certainly don’t want to see him dead.”
“I may turn an ankle keeping up with all your changes in direction,” said Iris. “Silly, us both wondering if it was him. A black man is killed in London, and we automatically wonder if it’s the one black man we’ve met recently.”
“Honestly, given our recent history it’s refreshing to hear about a murder without us being involved in some fashion,” said Gwen. “Odd that you were in Fitzrovia this morning. Morwell Street. That’s behind the Livingstone Club?”
“Yes.”
“What prompted you to go there?”
“I decided to take a different route to work for a change,” said Iris. “Well, better get started on the day.”
That’s the second lie she’s told me this week, thought Gwen.
But she dropped it and went back to her letters.
CHAPTER 7
Friday afternoons were normally a slow crawl towards the anticipated weekends for the ladies of The Right Sort. This one, however, raced by too quickly for Gwen, who was dreading the evening dinner. Iris, normally a chatterbox, was surprisingly quiet.
“Tomorrow, we paint, and you’ll tell me all about it,” she said, giving Gwen a quick hug before they parted at the end of the day.
“If I’m still alive, and not in jail,” said Gwen.
“If the latter, call me straightaway,” said Iris. “If the former—well, tell me anyway.”
There was no sign of Mr. Daile when Gwen reached her street. She gave a sigh of relief, then wrestled her conscience two falls out of three over her self-condemnation. Rather than letting herself in through the front door, she walked down the driveway to the delivery entrance and slipped into the kitchen.
Prudence looked up in surprise and momentary fear, then relaxed when she saw who it was.
“Did the delivery come in time?” asked Gwen, feeling as if she were speaking in code.
