Dear George,
I hope you are well, and not too bored. Perhaps you can come up to London one day soon? I’m starting to know the city a little now so I could show you some sights!
There’s so much to tell you. The job is going very well — it is really very light duties — just some typing up of Mr Peabody’s notes on the history of films. They’re not difficult to follow, and I’m making real headway with them. Mrs Peabody seems pleased with what I’m doing. She doesn’t interfere with my work, as she has a great deal of business to transact in London and is generally out most of the day. I breakfast with her, but, as I have afternoons to myself, I have had a couple of lunches out, once at Fuller’s in Regent Street, and once — you’ll never guess where! — once, on Sunday, actually, I lunched at the Ritz! It was with some new friends of mine, the St-Remys — they’re from France — and it was just as wonderful as you might imagine!
I have walked miles, it seems, all over London. I’ve been to the Houses of Parliament, and Whitehall, and the Tower of London, and Buckingham Palace and Hyde Park, and the Victoria and Albert Museum and Charing Cross, oh and ever so much more! I’ve been to some wonderful shops, too: Harrod’s and Selfridge’s, and the Army and Navy Stores. Yesterday, Victor St-Remy and I walked up and down Bond Street, looking in the windows of all the most exquisite jewellery shops…
Daisy sat for a moment, staring into space, remembering the beautiful diamond ear clips she saw in the window of one such shop. Victor had said, softly, ‘Why, they are shaped like daisies. They might have been made just for you …’
She hadn’t answered; what kind of answer should a girl give to a thing like that? But the warmth of his words, and the look in his eyes, gave her butterflies in the stomach.
She turned back to her letter. No, really she should not tell George about the visit to Bond Street. It was not the kind of thing he would be interested in. She scrubbed out the offending line, and went on.
You’ll never guess who is staying at the Brooks, George! Olivia Marlow, the film star! Mr Meyer — he’s another guest here — says she is ‘lying low’ at the Brooks because her love affair with the Prince of Luxenstein is in trouble. Miss Marlow really is nice, and doesn’t give herself airs at all, even though she’s every bit as glamorous and beautiful as her photographs.
She sucked at the end of her pen. Despite what Mrs Peabody had revealed, and what Victor had said, she really did like Olivia Marlow. She was so nice and natural — she had even seemed to take an interest in Daisy’s job, as if she and Daisy were equals. And if he ever was, Victor was certainly not smitten with the actress now; in fact, rather the opposite. He certainly did his best to avoid her. That wasn’t all that difficult, for she was rarely at the hotel during the day. And in the evenings, she was usually out dancing, or at the theatre. Daisy had looked for the show ‘Once in a Blue Moon’ in a directory of plays currently on in London theatres, but had drawn a blank. She still had no idea why the actress had reacted to the notice of it with such emotion. Ah well! It was none of her business, really.
London is so beautiful at night, too, with all the lights, and the well-dressed crowds. Mrs Peabody says she’ll take me to a show at the Adelphi Theatre soon. And on Monday evening I went with the St-Remys to the Tivoli Cinema in the Strand, and …
There was a sharp knock at the door. It was Irene Taylor.
‘Mrs Peabody wishes you to go on an errand,’ she said, in her usual dry manner. ‘You are to go to the Poste Restante counter at the General Post Office in King Edward Street. You can get there by Tube or bus, as you wish.’ She handed Daisy some money. ‘You are to ask if there are any letters for Mrs H. Peabody, Poste Restante, London. She says you do not need to hurry back, but to go alone. Mr St-Remy should not go with you.’
Daisy coloured. ‘He is not here this afternoon in any case,’ she snapped. ‘He has gone with his grandmother to tea at a friend’s house.’
The maid shrugged. ‘Those are her instructions,’ she observed, and left.
Daisy was annoyed both by Mrs Peabody’s interference and the pointless errand. Why on earth had Mrs Peabody had a letter sent Poste Restante, instead of directly, and much more conveniently, to the Brooks Hotel? Why couldn’t she have sent Irene, anyway? But Daisy already knew the answer to that one. Irene was very clear about what her duties were. She was a personal maid, not an errand-girl. That’s me, thought Daisy, crossly putting on her hat and coat. It was annoying to have to go all the way there when she had decided to make this an afternoon of letter writing. It wasn’t even a particularly nice day, but rather overcast and windy. Still, there was no help for it.
She was becoming quite good at travelling on the Underground now, and soon worked out how to get to Post Office Station. From there it was only a short walk. The Poste Restante counter was in the Public Hall of the big old building. There was quite a queue, which included many foreigners, who had a great deal of trouble making themselves understood by the clerks. Finally, it was Daisy’s turn. She waited while the clerk looked in the pigeonhole marked ‘P’.
‘There’s only this, Miss,’ said the clerk, returning. It was a thin, square envelope, with a name and address stamped in one corner: Carter’s Diamond Company, Bond Street, London. There was also another stamp, marked, Confidential.
Daisy stared at it. Carter’s was the store where she and Victor had seen the diamond daisy clips. How very odd of Mrs Peabody to have a letter from them sent here rather than the hotel! Was she buying a diamond? Was she afraid that someone at the hotel might find out? But why should she care? It made no sense. Perhaps this was what business people did. They were secretive. Maybe she was making some important deal and didn’t want anyone to know — especially anyone from the same trade, like Mr Meyer. But surely she hadn’t known Mr Meyer was going to be there? Thoughtfully, Daisy put the letter in her bag and left.
Outside, she looked at her watch. It was only three-thirty. And she had been told not to hurry back. After a moment’s thought, she decided she’d catch a bus to the British Museum. There was supposed to be a really good Egyptology section there, with an especially big display of mummies. George had told her all about it. And it wasn’t something Victor would want to go to — he’d said he had no interest in the past at all. Daisy didn’t either, generally, but the Egyptians, with their magic and mummies, were somehow different.
Quite a few people must have had the same idea on this windy afternoon, because the Museum’s Egyptian galleries were crowded. Daisy found herself carried along on the tide of people, stopping to exclaim at statues of gods, painted mummy cases and bits of stone with heiroglyphics printed on them. The mummy rooms were the most crowded of all, but they were just as fascinating and gruesome as Daisy had expected. How George would love it here!
She was just looking at one of the weirdest mummies, a corpse that dated from 7000 BC and looked like it had been dipped in liquid glass, when all at once, through a break in the crowd, she caught a glimpse of a couple deep in conversation. The man had his back to her so she couldn’t see his face. He was tall, bare-headed and very fair. The girl’s face was hidden under a large hat, but her bright hair was clearly visible. She had a rather familiar kittenish tilt to her head. It was Olivia Marlow.
As Daisy watched, the man took his leave of the actress and departed. Daisy was about to go and speak to her when all at once she caught sight of someone else. Right at the back of the crowd, almost unrecognisably discreet, wrapped in a long black coat, hat pulled down over her eyes — Mrs Peabody!
Olivia Marlow left the room. An instant later, so did Mrs Peabody. There was no mistaking her purpose. She was shadowing the actress!
Daisy stood rooted to the spot. For some reason, she didn’t want Mrs Peabody to know she’d been spotted. What was her employer doing? Daisy remembered the things she’d said about Olivia Marlow at the breakfast table; how unsympathetic she’d been. Was she, perhaps, an agent? A spy, for Princess Hildegarde? Was the fair man Prince Ottokar? Had Olivia Marlow arranged a secret meeting with him? Or was he someone else — someone the actress didn’t want to be seen with, publicly? Someone whose existence was suspected by Princess Hildegarde, who’d go to any lengths to break off her son’s romance?
‘Excuse me, Miss, but you’ll have to move. You’re holding up the traffic.’ The attendant’s voice was rather sharp.
‘Sorry,’ said Daisy, and beat a hasty retreat. George would think I’m a fool for not going after Mrs Peabody to find out what she’s playing at, thought Daisy. But she really didn’t want Mrs Peabody to know she was there. There had been something almost … almost sinister about her stealthy movements, the way she moved softly as a cat, despite her bulk.
On her way back to the hotel, Daisy thought and thought. Should she warn Miss Marlow that she’d been followed? But would the actress herself want to know she’d been spotted by Daisy as much as Mrs Peabody? Besides, thought Daisy, suddenly, she might think I’m in on it. She remembered the seemingly casual questions Olivia Marlow had put to her about Mrs Peabody. Did the actress already suspect there was a spy in the hotel?
But surely Mrs Peabody would make a terrible spy. She was far too noticeable, for a start. If you wanted a secret agent, surely you’d make sure they could blend in with the crowd. Dash it, thought Daisy, I wish George was here. He’d know what to do …
Back at the hotel, she went straight to Mrs Peabody’s quarters with the letter she’d picked up from the Post Office. She knocked. A voice called, ‘Wait,’ and the door opened. It wasn’t Irene who stood there, but a hotel maid in a crisp uniform, duster in hand. She looked inquiringly at Daisy, who said, ‘I’m Mrs Peabody’s secretary.’
‘Mrs Peabody’s out,’ said the maid.
‘I know. But Miss Taylor …’
‘She’s not here, neither.’
Daisy’s heart beat fast. Here was an opportunity! ‘I’ll just put this inside, then.’
‘Suit yourself, Miss. I’ve finished here, anyway.’
Left alone, Daisy looked around her. Mrs Peabody’s room was large and spacious, more so than hers, and everything looked normal, at least Mrs Peabody-style ‘normal’: outrageous clothes neatly hanging in the closet, wigs draped on stands, drawers full of large underwear, dressing table cluttered with perfumes, face creams and brushes. A little table was piled high with handwritten notes that she recognised as the book manuscript. Daisy shuffled through them but there was nothing whatsoever about Luxenstein, no secret papers, nothing. She opened the drawer of the bedside table. In it were several pairs of coloured glasses, a tube of antacid tablets, a leaking lipstick and a London guidebook bookmarked, with a business card, at a page on Bond Street. The card was rather grubby with ‘Fletcher’s Advice Bureau’ embossed on it. The office address was in Bloomsbury. Daisy smiled to herself. ‘Advice bureau’ was generally a euphemism for ‘matchmaking agency’. Was Mrs Peabody, then, on the hunt for a husband? But then Daisy’s attention was caught by the map in the guidebook. There was an inked circle around a familiar name: Carter’s Diamond Company, Bond Street. Again! How odd.
Daisy looked at the letter she’d picked up from the Post Office. She longed to open it. But Mrs Peabody would know at once.
She looked around her. At the far end of the room was the connecting door to Irene’s room. Daisy hesitated. She didn’t want to be caught prying. But her curiosity got the better of her — she’d just take a very quick peek.
It was a small, pleasant, and very neat room. The closet contained only three outfits, all of them black or dark blue, and one pair of lace-up walking shoes. The chest of drawers contained some very plain underwear. On the bedside table was a framed photograph of an unsmiling couple in old-fashioned clothes, probably Irene’s parents. In the drawer, surprisingly, was a romantic novel with a bright jacket. There were no cosmetics except for a tube of cream.
Daisy was about to go out when she caught a glimpse of something under the bed. She bent down and pulled it out. It was only a suitcase, almost empty by the feel of it, and she was about to slide it back when she changed her mind. In for a penny, in for a pound! She clicked open the suitcase.
There was only a slim book there, covered in plain paper. Daisy opened it, and stared. It was an Australian book, published five years ago in Sydney. The title was A Short History of the Silver Screen and it was written by a Mr. A. Peabody! Hardly able to believe her eyes, Daisy flipped quickly to the Introduction. She read the words printed there, and her heart raced. There could be no mistake. These were the very words she herself had typed up from the notes Mrs Peabody had given her! She read on. Yes, it was all exactly the same. She was being made to re-type a book that was not only already completely typewritten, but printed and published!
Daisy’s mind raced. If only George were here … But he wasn’t. Besides, he’d likely only put two and two together and make twenty-two. There was Victor, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to tell him such things. It made her look like a naive fool for taking on such a bogus job in the first place. In any case, she didn’t really want to admit she’d been snooping.
She dropped the book back in the suitcase and pushed it under the bed again. The last thing she wanted was for Mrs Peabody or Irene to know she’d been in their rooms. She glanced around her. She didn’t think she’d disturbed anything. She put the letter in her pocket, locked the door of Mrs Peabody’s room from the inside and slipped quickly back to her own room.
Not a moment too soon. She had just sat down at her desk and was looking down at the letter from Carter’s, wondering whether she dared open it, when a knock came at the door. ‘Daisy! Daisy! Are you there?’ called Mrs Peabody.
Daisy opened the door. ‘Yes, Mrs Peabody,’ she stammered. ‘Just writing a letter. To … To my friend George Dale.’
The Australian’s face was rather red and windblown and she was puffing a little, as if she’d been hurrying. Her hat was askew and her eyes glittered behind brown-tinted glasses. She looks a little mad, Daisy thought with a shiver, and a bit … dangerous.
‘Good. And did you get mine?’ Mrs Peabody said, impatiently.
‘Yes, Mrs Peabody.’ Daisy fetched the letter.
Mrs Peabody glanced at it. Daisy faltered, ‘That was all there was, Mrs Peabody. The clerk said it was the only mail for you.’
Mrs Peabody raised her eyebrows and gave a short laugh. ‘What’s up, Daisy? Nobody’s accusing you of withholding letters! Did you have a good afternoon, by the way?’
‘Oh, I just came straight back after the Post Office,’ lied Daisy, rather panic-stricken, ‘it was such a nasty windy day.’
‘Worried about it blowing your hairdo about, eh? Ah, you young girls!’ said Mrs Peabody in such a jolly, normal tone that Daisy felt like a complete idiot for suspecting her of anything weird or sinister at all. She smiled weakly and watched as Mrs Peabody stomped off back to her room. Daisy waited a moment, but she didn’t come back.
Daisy breathed a sigh of relief. It was alright. Mrs Peabody didn’t suspect anything out of the ordinary.