To Clara’s surprise, Mr Jennings was able to track down one of Uncle Bob’s agents in a very short space of time. He called his office – using Uncle Bob’s telephone – and asked his secretary to look in the Lady Loughborough file to find the phone number of one Jack Danskin. Within five minutes he had Danskin on the blower and asked him if he was able to pop down to ‘Old Bob Wallace’s office’. It seemed that Danskin could.
As Jennings and Clara waited for the agent to arrive, the solicitor explained that the Lady Loughborough case was one of Uncle Bob’s recent jobs: a divorce where Danskin had been used to gather evidence on Lady Loughborough’s philandering husband. ‘So you see, Miss Vale, why running an enquiry agency might not be the most suitable occupation for a polite young lady of social standing.’
Clara gave Jennings a polite, non-committal nod, biting back a retort that she was not that young, nor, in her more unguarded moments, particularly polite. And as for social standing, well, she’d shunned that by refusing to play the ‘let’s catch a husband’ game and insisting on getting a job and working for a living instead of leeching off her father’s considerable assets. She was certainly not, and never would be, Lady Clara. Clara sat down at her uncle’s desk and ran a finger over the oak surface, drawing a line in a light layer of dust. It had been around six weeks since he had died, and it seemed that the office had been shut up since then. She looked over her shoulder at the filing cabinet and said: ‘I should imagine Uncle Bob has a Lady Loughborough file of his own.’
Jennings nodded. ‘I should imagine he has. Had. I should imagine he had.’
Clara felt a surge of curiosity and desperately wanted to open the filing cabinet. She drummed her fingers against the desk, wishing Jennings would leave so she could snoop in peace. Then she berated herself. The kindly solicitor was just looking out for what he considered her best interests. He wasn’t to know – only having met her for the first time less than two hours ago – that he had perhaps misjudged her. Had he misjudged her? Or had her uncle?
Clara gave herself an inner shake. Just a short while ago she had been standing in the middle of the office, feeling like a small girl, completely out of her depth, asking: what am I to do with this place? But something had happened when she heard the phrase ‘the Lady Loughborough case’. Something had stirred in her. The same thing that had stirred in her when she watched The Canary Murder Case last week. Call it scientific curiosity if you will – the same curiosity that compelled her first at school, and then at university to conduct experiments in chemistry and physics. The questions ‘I wonder what would happen if …’ or ‘I wonder why that happens the way it does …’ were never far from her mind. Then she thought back to a walk with her uncle on the cliffs of Cornwall where she asked the very same type of questions. ‘Uncle Bob, do you ever wonder why …?’ And the Sherlock Holmes stories she and Uncle Bob delighted in recounting to one another. Holmes was scientifically minded, as she was, and like her he didn’t give two hoots for social standing.
But Sherlock Holmes was a fictional detective. And The Canary Murder Case was just a moving picture. This was the real world. Of filing cabinets and ledgers and a job at a library back in London that she would lose if she didn’t return there next week.
There was a knock at the door, jolting her out of her reverie. ‘Come in!’ she called, startling Barnaby Jennings with her proprietorial tone.
The door opened to reveal a dark-haired man in his mid-thirties, sporting a trim moustache and the suggestion of an afternoon shadow on a square jaw. He wore a reasonably well-cut suit and tie that put him above the level of artisan or shopkeeper, but below that of the professional classes – as did his fedora hat, which was wearing a little thinly around the rim. Clara immediately chastised herself for applying her mother’s method of pigeonholing people and stood to greet the gentleman.
Jennings had already intercepted him and was shaking his hand. ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice, Danskin. May I introduce Miss Clara Vale, Bob Wallace’s niece. Miss Vale has very kindly come up from London to help settle her uncle’s estate.’
‘I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Vale. How do you do. Please accept my condolences on the passing of your uncle. He was a good man.’ His voice, Clara noted, matched his suit. Clearly North Eastern, but more easily understood than the colourful Geordie dialect she’d heard shouted from the barrow boys and grocers on her way up Grey Street.
Clara nodded her thanks. ‘How do you do. Thank you, Mr Danskin, my uncle will be sorely missed. And thank you too for coming.’ Clara was aware of Jennings hovering, like a worried mother bird, waiting to chirp back into the conversation, so she cut in before he could start.
‘Mr Jennings here tells me you were one of my uncle’s agents. I was wondering if you might talk me through exactly what goes on at a detective agency.’
‘Er yes, Danskin, that’s exactly why I asked you here. Miss Vale is curious about what her uncle did. Quite understandable, a niece wanting to know more about her uncle’s life, wouldn’t you say?’
Well, thought Clara, that’s not exactly why I want to know … but before she could vocalise her thoughts the telephone rang, startling them all.
‘Bob wanting to have a word?’ quipped Danskin, raising one of his dark brows.
Clara bit back a giggle.
Jennings gave a nervous laugh. ‘Shall I get it?’
‘No, I will,’ said Clara, turning on her heel and picking up the receiver.
‘Er, hello,’ she said. ‘Er, Wallace Enquiry Agency. How may I help you?’
Clara looked across at the two men. Jennings clutched his worried hands, apparently startled at her boldness. While Danskin gave a rakish grin, clearly amused.
‘Oh, hello. Is that Miss Vale? It’s Mr Jennings’ secretary here. Is he still there?’
‘He is. Do you wish to speak with him?’
‘No, that’s not necessary. But can you please ask him to come back to the office immediately. Tell him it’s the Balshard brief. And I’m afraid it’s urgent.’ The line was muffled for a moment, as if a hand had been placed over the mouthpiece. Then Clara heard: ‘Of course, Mr Balshard. I understand, Mr Balshard. Mr Jennings is on his way.’ The secretary spoke directly to Clara in an anxious whisper: ‘Please, Miss Vale, tell him it’s urgent.’ Then she rang off.
Clara hooked the earpiece on its cradle and turned to Jennings. ‘It was your secretary, Mr Jennings. She asked you to come back to the office, please. She said to tell you it’s the Balshard brief, and it’s urgent.’
Jennings visibly paled. ‘Balshard? Oh heavens, I’d better get back. So …’ he looked first to Danskin then to Clara ‘… we’d better leave this meeting for another time. Is that all right?’
‘No need for that,’ said Danskin, removing his hat and hanging it on a coat stand, ‘I think Miss Vale and I can handle this on our own. If that’s all right with you, Miss Vale?’
She was slightly taken aback by his presumption, but then realised that Danskin had just voiced exactly what she was about to say.
‘Yes, Mr Danskin, that is perfectly all right. My time in Newcastle is short. Don’t worry, Mr Jennings, if you leave the key, I’ll lock up. And,’ she said, softening her tone with a smile towards the kindly but worrisome solicitor, ‘good luck with Balshard.’
Jennings clutched his hands again, but then eventually nodded and hurried off.
Danskin and Clara were left alone, standing in the middle of Uncle Bob’s office. Without the hat, thought Clara, the agent bore a striking resemblance to the actor Ronald Colman, whom she’d recently seen in the silent picture Beau Geste. And, she believed, was starring in a talkie version of Bulldog Drummond. Yet another fictional detective …
‘So …’ said Danskin.
‘So …’ said Clara. She gestured to the two chairs on either side of the desk. ‘I suppose I should sit here,’ she said, slipping behind the desk to the chair she’d recently vacated.
‘That’s where your Uncle Bob sat,’ said Danskin, with a sad smile. ‘I meant what I said, Miss Vale, your uncle was a top bloke.’
‘Thank you, Mr Danskin, please take a seat. Now, I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but my uncle has left the agency to me. It’s up to me whether I keep it or sell it, but I would like to find out a bit more about it before I make my decision. Mr Jennings doesn’t think I should keep it on, but my Uncle Bob seemed to think it might be something suited to me. And he knew me a bit better than Mr Jennings. But I confess, I’m not yet sure which of them is right. So, can you tell me what you did for Bob and what running a business like this might entail?’
Danskin leaned back, unbuttoned his jacket and relaxed into the chair. His expression was measured and thoughtful although, annoyingly, his eyes did fleetingly glance over her body before he spoke. ‘Well, Miss Vale, as I know you even less than Jennings does, I will not hazard a guess as to your suitability for the role. You are of course a woman …’
‘And there are no lady detectives?’ snapped Clara.
Danskin shrugged. ‘Well, there are, but they’re not as common as men. And there’s a reason for that—’
‘What about the infamous Maud West? She’s been running an agency in London for years.’
‘Aye, she has, and she’s a cracking sleuth by all accounts, but … well, there’s no lady who owns an agency in these parts. That’s all I’m saying. That’ll be a first for the Toon.’
Clara gave him a measured look. ‘Let’s cut to the chase, Mr Danskin. Are you saying I could not take over my uncle’s business just because I’m a woman?’
‘Oh I’m not saying that …’
‘Good. I’m glad we’ve cleared that up. So you wouldn’t mind if I became your employer?’
Danskin threw back his head and laughed. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t be my employer, Miss Vale. Jack Danskin is his own man. But I might consider providing my services to you if you continued to pay at the same rate as your uncle.’
Clara nodded, glad they’d reached some kind of understanding. ‘I’m sure that could be arranged, Mr Danskin. But first, could you give me a brief summary of what the agency does and how Uncle Bob went about it?’
Danskin ran his thumb over his chin, taking a while to compose his answer. ‘Well – as the name says – we make enquiries. Clients pay the agent to make enquiries, to find out information that they might not easily be able to find otherwise. Or to provide evidence of someone’s guilt or innocence of something.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as whether a husband or wife is guilty of having an affair. We get a lot of that. We collect evidence to be used in divorce proceedings, to prove one party has been unfaithful.’
Clara’s brows furrowed. ‘And how do you get that evidence? By spying on them?’
Danskin shrugged. ‘That’s one way. Otherwise we pay people at certain establishments to pass on information about who has been there and when. A couple signing in for a weekend away, for instance. A waiter who has served a couple, and so forth.’ Danskin looked directly at Clara. ‘If this shocks you, Miss Vale, then I suggest you call it a day, because that’s the bread and butter of any agency.’
Clara consciously unfurrowed her brows. She was no innocent. She had known of enough people who had been divorced – or had read about it in the papers – to know what went on. No, she wasn’t shocked, but she was a little underwhelmed. It was hardly Sherlock Holmes. Or Philo Vance.
‘No, not shocked at all. I am aware of such things. You say this is the bread and butter, but what else?’
Danskin grinned, managing to look charming and rakish at the same time. Clara was beginning to think the handsome agent cultivated that look.
‘Well, there is also work in some of the larger department stores and higher-class retail outfits. Bob has a few ladies on his books who do in-store security, on the lookout for shoplifters. The thieves are usually women, so women detectives are needed. They work at the shop undercover, pretending to be customers. There’s a fair bit of that. The same women sometimes get placed at big houses too – posing as housemaids – if there’s pilfering suspected among the staff.’
‘So Bob employed women detectives?’
‘Aye,’ said Danskin, nodding towards the filing cabinet behind her. ‘He kept all the agents’ files in there.’
Clara was itching to get into the files.
‘And what, Mr Danskin, did Bob hire you to do?’
‘Ah, I helped Bob with more specialised work, usually passed on to him by Mr Jennings. Tracking down the beneficiaries of estates, for instance.’ The rakish grin again. ‘If you hadn’t been found so easily, I might have been on your scent now too.’
Clara felt a little flush creep up her neck. She cleared her throat. ‘Anything else?’
Danskin nodded. ‘Bribery, blackmail, abductions. They’re not as common, but Bob and I worked on a few such cases. Oh, and a couple of murders.’
‘Goodness!’ said Clara, trying to appear nonchalant. ‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ said Danskin, beating her in the nonchalance stakes. ‘But just a couple. One was an inheritance case where it was assumed a fellow had died in an accident. Bob was hired by an insurance company to investigate the circumstances before paying out to the heir. But Bob discovered that it was in fact the heir who had killed his relative, making it look like an accident. It was all over the papers. I’m surprised you didn’t read about it.’
Clara shook her head. ‘So am I. Perhaps it didn’t make it down to London.’ She leaned forward in her chair. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. There was a poisoning case last year. The wife was arrested for it, but, fortunately, the wife’s lover had a lot of money and could afford to hire Bob. We were able to prove that it was in fact the husband’s lover who had done it, when he refused to get a divorce.’
Clara blinked rapidly. This was all proving to be rather sordid. Sordid … and exciting. ‘But those are the rare cases, are they? The bulk of them are what you describe as “bread ’n’ butter”.’
‘Aye, Miss Vale.’ He nodded. ‘In all seriousness, you need to think about this very carefully. Yes, there are a few exciting cases, but it’s mainly drudge work. And most of it is dealing with either very nasty or very sad people. Bob seemed to think you’re up for it though. And Bob was a very good judge of character. But I’ll leave it for you to decide.’
He stood up. Clara stood too. ‘Thank you, Mr Danskin. You have given me a lot of food for thought. And I do appreciate your time.’
Danskin plucked his hat from the coat stand and tipped it to Clara before putting it on his head. ‘You’re very welcome, Miss Vale. Do let me know if I can be of any further help. As I said, if you pay as fair as Bob, I’ll be willing to give you a chance. I can’t promise others will, though. And there’s other agencies in town.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. You’ll have competition if you decide to stay. But Bob always paid more than them. However, for some agents on the books, that won’t be the only deciding factor.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You being a woman, of course.’ He grinned. ‘Not everyone is as forward-thinking as yer Uncle Bob.’