Clara was feeling much better after eating a delicious meal of steak and kidney pudding and mashed potato at the Fenwick’s Terrace tea room, accompanied – charmingly – by a luncheon string quartet. Fenwick’s was a department store, not unlike Bainbridge’s or Selfridges on London’s Oxford Street. There was a Fenwick’s in London, too – on Bond Street, if Clara recalled – but it was not as expansive as this northern emporium of shopping delights. Not that Clara was much of a shopper, but she recognised quality when she saw it. Her mother and sister would love it. In fact, she now recalled her mother mentioning that she used to shop there as a young woman before meeting Clara’s father and moving to London.
What Clara did buy, however, was a swimsuit. The poster of Whitley Bay on the train had piqued her interest. As she had to go back to London on Friday, if she could get her business done with the solicitor tomorrow, she could, perhaps, head to the coast on Thursday. Clara loved to swim, although she imagined the North Sea would be a tad cooler than the waters in Cornwall.
With her swimsuit packed in a beribboned box under her arm, Clara stepped onto busy Northumberland Street, took her bearings and turned left, back up to Percy Street. Five minutes later she was outside the costumier. She considered popping in to introduce herself, as they were her uncle’s downstairs neighbours – and owners of the building – but she stopped when she saw a woman writing a note and posting it through the letter box of Wallace Enquiry Agency.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Clara. ‘May I help you?’
Startled, the woman turned to see who had spoken to her. She was around forty and dressed all in black, her face pale with dark rings under her eyes. ‘Oh, good afternoon. I was just leaving a note for Miss Wallace. Are you Miss Wallace?’
‘I’m Miss Vale. Is it Mr Wallace you are looking for? I’m afraid he has passed away.’
The woman shook her head, confusion fleeting across her face. ‘No, no. I know he’s passed. It’s his niece I’m looking for. I was told she’d just been to the office. Are you she?’
‘I am,’ said Clara. ‘But my name is Vale. Miss Clara Vale. Erm, how did you know I was here?’
‘Miss Levine rang me.’
‘And who is Miss Levine?’
‘Oh, sorry, haven’t you met her? She runs the costume shop. With her brother. Juju and Jonny Levine. They own the building and were your uncle’s landlords.’
Clara peered through the window of the costumier and saw a woman waving. Clara waved tentatively back. Juju Levine, she assumed. ‘No, I was actually just about to pop in to say hello when I saw you leaving the note.’
The door to the costumier opened with a cheerful ring of a bell and a woman in her fifties, wearing a colourful blouse covered in appliqued butterflies, flitted out.
‘Aha! What splendid timing! Hello! I assume you’re Clara. Your uncle spoke so much about you. I’m Juju. Juju Levine.’ She thrust out her hand with a pin cushion strapped to her wrist.
Clara took the hand, pleased by the warm, firm grasp. ‘How do you do, Juju? What an unusual name!’
‘Oh, it’s really Judith. But I’ve always been called Juju. But enough about me. I’m glad Alice has caught you. I’ll leave you two ladies to talk. But do drop by for a cup of tea when you’re finished, or …’ she winked ‘… something stronger if we’re past the yardarm.’ And then she fluttered back into her shop, leaving Clara and the woman in black on the doorstep.
‘I’m sorry, we haven’t been properly introduced. Alice, is it?’
The woman reached out a tentative hand. ‘My apologies. How do you do? Yes, I’m Alice Whittaker. Mrs James Whittaker, actually. My husband also passed quite recently. I’m one of your uncle’s clients.’
‘How do you do, Mrs Whittaker. And please accept my condolences regarding your husband. I’m not sure how I can help you, but perhaps we should go upstairs and have a chat.’
‘Thank you, Miss Vale. I should appreciate that very much.’
Clara dug out the keys from her handbag and opened the door.
A few minutes later, the two women had removed their hats, coats and gloves and were seated on either side of Bob Wallace’s desk.
‘Well,’ said Clara, pushing the heavy cast-iron typewriter to one side and folding her hands in front of her. ‘How may I help you?’
Mrs Whittaker cleared her throat. ‘I know you have just arrived and haven’t had time to familiarise yourself with your uncle’s cases, but I just wanted to ask that when you do, you perhaps look at my case first. For obvious reasons, with your uncle’s passing, my case has gone on hold. But it’s been over six weeks now, and things are not getting better for me. I need this to be sorted soon. I need the insurance money. I have three children and I’m struggling to pay the rent and the bank are foreclosing on a loan my husband took out before he died and I might lose what’s left of the family business, too.’
Clara blinked a few times, taking this all in. ‘Well, Mrs Whittaker, I’m not sure what to say. As you’ve already pointed out, I’ve only just arrived …’
‘I understand that, and I don’t want to rush you, but I hope that as soon as you start work you will put my case first.’
‘I – well – I’m not sure whether I will be working here. Today is the first time I have even heard that my uncle ran an enquiry agency. And that he’s left it to me in his will. I came up here expecting to inherit a few hundred pounds and perhaps a stamp collection, at best. Not a business.’
Mrs Whittaker’s pale face slackened in disappointment. ‘You’re not taking over from your uncle? Then who will? When will all the cases he was working on be opened again? When will my case be opened? When will – when will – oh—’ And then she started to cry.
Clara froze. She had absolutely no idea what to do. She wasn’t an emotionally demonstrative person herself and hadn’t a clue how to handle this. What would her uncle have done? What would anyone do?
‘I – well – here,’ she said, fishing a handkerchief out of her handbag and passing it across the desk. ‘I’m sorry you’re so upset. But I’m not sure what I can do. This has all come out of the blue. My uncle left the agency to me, yes, but he hadn’t discussed it with me first. I think I have two choices. Or three, I suppose. I can sell the agency to someone else. Or I can hire someone to run it for me. Or – well – I could do what my uncle wanted and take it on. But I’ve literally just arrived. I haven’t had time to decide. I’m sorry, Mrs Whittaker, I need a bit more time.’
Mrs Whittaker dabbed at her eyes and sniffed. ‘Yes, yes, I understand that. And I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m so desperate.’
Clara nodded. ‘No need to apologise. I understand. Isn’t there another agent who can help you? I’ve been told there are other enquiry agencies in town. Or detective agencies, as I believe they’re sometimes known. Is that correct?’
The widow nodded. ‘Yes, there are. But I’ve tried them all. Bob Wallace was the only one who would take my case. The rest have already turned me down.’
‘And why is that?’ asked Clara, curiously.
Mrs Whittaker let out a long, painful sigh. ‘Because your uncle was the only one who wasn’t in the pocket of the insurers. He was the only one brave enough to stand up to them. I – well – I was hoping you would be too. I’m sorry, Miss Vale, it was silly of me. And I’ve taken enough of your time.’
She put Clara’s handkerchief on the desk and stood. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
But as she turned, Clara felt something stir in her: curiosity. If this woman left now she might never find out why her uncle was brave enough to stand up to the insurers. And she might never know why he thought she might be brave enough too. No one in her family had ever had any faith in her. Except him. Could she possibly live up to it? There was only one way to find out.
‘Please, Mrs Whittaker, don’t go. Let me see if I can help. Perhaps I can temporarily hire someone to continue with your case. Or perhaps I can do something myself. But you’ll have to tell me all about it first. Can you do that?’
A flash of hope momentarily lit the widow’s eyes. ‘Yes, I can do that. If it’ll help. Where should I start?’
Clara took her notebook from her handbag and unscrewed a fountain pen. ‘The beginning, I suppose. That would be the logical place, don’t you think?’