Clara lay on her bed at the Royal Central Station Hotel, her naked body wrapped in a towel. She’d just had a bath in the en suite. It had cost her extra for the luxury of her own bathroom, but Newcastle prices were a fair bit cheaper than London, so it was not such a hit to the pocket. Not that she would have to worry about such things if she accepted the allowance from her father. But she didn’t, and that was that. However, as a poorly paid librarian it was hard to turn her back on it, despite the entangling strings. But now – thanks to Uncle Bob – it looked like she might finally be able to cut herself loose once and for all. A two-thousand-pound house and a going business – value still to be determined. The house alone, even if she sold it, would put her in a very good place financially. She sat up, propping herself up on a pile of pillows, and started massaging the courtesy Ponds cold cream into her feet and legs.
But what about the business? What was she to do? She was very curious to know what the accountant had to say about its worth. She was to meet him – along with Mr Jennings’ son – at ten o’clock tomorrow. If she were to sell it, how much would she get for it? And who would she sell it to? And who would deal with the whole thing? She had only intended to stay in Newcastle for a few days and was due back at work in London on Monday. She had a return train ticket booked for Friday and could extend it to Saturday or Sunday. But in terms of office days, that only gave her three more days – hardly time to initiate and conclude a business deal. Particularly as she’d already committed to spending Thursday afternoon in Whitley Bay. No, she would have to appoint an agent to deal with it all in her stead. Mr Jennings had intimated that he would be willing to undertake that task.
But while that was all being worked out, who would take care of any ongoing clients? Alice Whittaker’s sad tale had opened Clara’s eyes to the fact that the files in Uncle Bob’s cabinet represented real people whose lives had been put on hold. Did she have a responsibility to them? Was there someone she could pass the cases on to, or would they need to be part of the sale to a new owner? But that could take months to sort out. In the meantime, what would happen to Mrs Whittaker and her children?
Clara screwed the lid on the jar of cold cream and put it on the bedside table, next to a small pile of files. She had brought them back from the office to read this evening, after supper. Topmost was the Whittaker file. The other files were a random selection of other clients that at first glance did not appear to be closed cases. Clara still had to figure out Uncle Bob’s system, but she had noticed that a copy of a bill was pinned to the inside of each file. ‘Paid in Full’ was written in red ink on some of the bills, but not on others. She assumed the ones without it were still open cases. Either that or they just hadn’t been paid.
Mrs Whittaker’s file had a running tally of expenses, so far amounting to seventy pounds. That was a lot of money for a widow with already substantial debts. Clara bit her lip and sighed. Mrs Whittaker’s plight really tugged at her heartstrings. And, if she were honest, it also teased her mind. There were a number of lines of enquiry – some scientific – that she would like to follow up if she were to take on the case. But how could she, with only a couple of days to spare? Not to mention not having the first idea of how to actually conduct an investigation. However, she had promised Mrs Whittaker she would see what she could do in the short time she had. Even if that just meant finding another investigator to pick up the case.
She planned to telephone Jack Danskin in the morning and ask him to meet her at the office. He was the only investigator she knew, and she would ask his advice on how to proceed. Perhaps he could be persuaded to take it on himself. Mrs Whittaker had told her that her uncle had worked on the case alone and hadn’t got any of his other agents involved.
Clara was tempted to start reading the Whittaker file now, but a glance at the bedside clock told her that she needed to get dressed for dinner. She had a table booked downstairs.
Half an hour later Clara stepped out of the elevator and into the hotel foyer. Her straight, raven-coloured hair with its fresh bob and blunt fringe hovered just above her slick black eyebrows. What she hadn’t told her mother at breakfast a few days ago in London, was that she’d been reluctantly talked into the fashionable cut by her hairdresser, who thought it made her look like Louise Brooks. The hairdresser assured her it would require less maintenance than her longer tresses that always needed to be pinned up. However, Clara realised, as her dark locks had fallen to the floor, that it would be sending her back to the salon more often to keep it neatly trimmed – and that could prove expensive, particularly as she was not on the Hollywood salary of Miss Brooks!
Her hair, coupled with the dress she was sporting – a claret-coloured Charles Worth cocktail gown with brown velvet trim on the hem and shoulder straps, and gold embroidered gardenias running down one side – made her appear far more fashionable than she normally was. The dress was a cast-off from her sister. From the 1927 Worth collection, it was apparently now far too ‘last season’ for the stylish Viscountess Laura Simpkins (née Miss Vale). Clara, though, suspected it was more to do with the extra weight her sister had failed to shift after popping out the latest little Simpkins. Either way, Clara was happy to accept the cast-off.
Her shoes – an old but well-maintained pair of pumps with gold brocade over brown velvet and three-inch Louis heels – were rarely worn. Since leaving Oxford seven years previously, Clara had not had many opportunities to dress up for dinner (other than the interminable affairs at her parents’ houses, and the trip to Paris a couple of years ago), so she did not glide across the mosaic floor like a bright young thing on the way to Zoots Jazz Club. Within two or three steps she wished she hadn’t bothered. She was, after all, a thirty-year-old woman dining alone. Who was she to impress? And God forbid anyone thought she was trying to. She was just about to turn around and head back upstairs to change into something less showy, when she recognised a man striding towards the cocktail lounge. The man – wearing a tuxedo and white bow tie – recognised her at the same time and greeted her with an appreciative smile and a raised eyebrow.
‘Well, good evening, Miss Vale. May I say how lovely you look this evening?’
Clara nodded in return. ‘Thank you, Mr Danskin. And a good evening to you too.’
‘Are you meeting someone?’
‘I wasn’t planning on it.’
‘That’s a pity.’ His brown eyes twinkled as he gave her his best Ronald Colman-esque smile. Clara imagined for a fleeting moment they were in the latest Bulldog Drummond flick.
She gave herself an internal shake and in a matter-of-fact voice said: ‘I don’t always dress like this and probably shouldn’t have tonight. But I packed in a hurry and my supply of evening wear is limited. And to seriously answer your first question, no, I am dining alone.’
‘Then perhaps I can change your mind.’
‘About?’
‘Dining alone. Would you care to join me for dinner?’
‘You have a table booked here, Mr Danskin? My, that is a coincidence,’ said Clara, sarcastically.
He grinned. ‘I don’t, but I can soon remedy that. Will you join me?’
Ordinarily, Clara did not like being steamrollered into decisions. And she certainly didn’t take well to flirtatious men – although, she had to admit, it had been a long time since a man had flirted with her. However, she had been planning on speaking to Jack Danskin tomorrow anyway. What would be the harm in bringing the meeting forward? So yes, she would have dinner with him. In a professional capacity. And she would make sure he knew that that’s all it was.
‘All right, I will. I was going to give you a ring in the morning anyway. This will save me the time – as long as we can talk shop.’
Danskin cocked his head to the side and said, playfully: ‘Of course! What else could we possibly talk about?’
Clara pursed her lips. ‘I’m serious, Mr Danskin. This will be a professional conversation. As long as you agree to that, then you may join me. I already have a table booked. I shall inform the maître d’ to set it for two.’
Ten minutes later, they were seated at a corner table furthest from the bandstand, at Clara’s request. The menus were consulted and hors d’oeuvres ordered: goose liver pâté on toast for Danskin and a crab cocktail salad for Clara.
‘Well, Mr Danskin,’ said Clara as she speared some crab and lettuce with her fork, ‘do you often drink in this hotel – alone – on a Tuesday evening?’
Danskin smeared a dollop of pâté on a finger of toast. ‘Not often.’
‘And it was just coincidence that you did so this evening?’
Danskin grinned. ‘No, not a coincidence. I was hoping to see you. I won’t beat around the bush.’
‘No, best not. Why did you want to see me?’
‘Because, Miss Vale, I’ve been giving our conversation earlier today some thought. You know when I said I would not be prepared to be employed by you, but would be prepared to continue working on the same basis I did with your Uncle Bob? On reflection I’ve realised that that’s not entirely true.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I think, in reality, I’m ready for a change.’
‘So, you do want to be formally employed then?’
Danskin grinned. ‘Not on your nelly, as me granny would say. No, Jack Danskin is his own man. But I’m thinking that maybe it’s time to settle down a bit.’
‘Are you married, Mr Danskin?’
‘I’m not, but I am at that time of life when I need to start thinking about it.’ Danskin’s dark brown eyes held Clara’s for a while longer than they should have.
Alarm bells went off in Clara’s head. ‘Pardon me, Mr Danskin, but are you proposing to me?’
This was not the first time Clara had received a proposal and she’d worked hard to push that previous encounter out of her mind. But suddenly all the memories came flooding back. The awkward fumbling in an Oxford flat after one too many drinks at a dinner party. The messy, sweaty few minutes of intimacy, which was over before it had barely begun. The embarrassed gathering of clothing the next morning, and then the mortified young man apologising for letting everything get out of hand, followed by an excruciatingly worded proposal, and, finally, his blatant relief when she said no.
Danskin threw back his head and laughed, drawing curious glances from the other diners. ‘Would that be so unpleasant if I were?’
Clara put down her fork and pursed her lips. ‘I think it would be very presumptuous of you. We’ve barely met. Perhaps we should call this “meeting” to an end.’ Clara sat up straight and turned to signal the maître d’.
Danskin raised his hands placatingly. ‘Hold your horses, Miss Vale. I’m not proposing. Not marriage, anyway. But I am proposing a business relationship.’
Clara held up her hand and shook her head to indicate to the maître d’ that he was no longer needed. ‘And what exactly do you have in mind?’
‘I propose buying half of Wallace Enquiry Agency.’
‘Why only half?’
‘Because I have no desire to handle the administration. I would be the active partner and you …’ he grinned ‘… the passive one.’
The double entendre was not lost on Clara, but she chose to ignore it. ‘And what would be the division of labour between these partners?’
Danskin held a piece of toast between thumb and forefinger and paused before popping it in his mouth. ‘I will do the investigating and you will manage the office.’
‘Oh, will I now?’
Clara waited, her annoyance rising, as Danskin chewed. Then, finally, he said: ‘That’s my proposal. I enjoy the investigative work. It’s what I’m good at. And I don’t want to get bogged down in administration. You, on the other hand, know nothing about investigative work.’
‘A few hours ago you were suggesting I might be able to be an investigator. You agreed with me that other ladies had done so.’
‘I did and they have. But it will take you time to learn. I could, of course, teach you. But while I do, you could manage the office.’
‘What makes you think I have the skills to be an administrator?’
He shrugged. ‘Well, if you don’t, and you don’t know how to investigate, then perhaps you should sell the business. I might be persuaded to buy the whole thing and then hire an administrator. But that would not really be respecting Bob’s wishes. He wanted to hand the business over to you. And, as I said before, I had a lot of respect for Bob and his instincts. This partnership offer would be a way of doing that.’
Clara mulled this over for a moment. It was certainly an interesting offer. But, frankly, if she wanted to work as an administrator there were plenty of office jobs available to women in London. It was not something she had ever desired to do. Eventually she said: ‘Thank you for the offer, Mr Danskin, but I think I will decline. I have not yet decided if I will keep the business, but if I do, I would want to do more than just totting up accounts and answering telephones. Also, forgive me, but I don’t know you from Adam, and entering into a fifty-fifty business relationship with a near stranger would not be the wisest thing to do. I will, however, consider your offer to buy the business outright. I have a meeting tomorrow with Uncle Bob’s accountant; after that I’ll have a better idea of its value and what I might ask for it. Is that acceptable to you?’
Danskin smiled. ‘I can wait until tomorrow. Now, are we ready to order the entrée?’
With the next course ordered (a breast of guinea fowl for Clara, pork chops for Danskin) Clara finally broached the subject of Alice Whittaker, explaining how the widow had come to the office earlier in the afternoon. ‘So, even if I don’t keep the business, I would still like to help her. Would you be willing to take on the case?’
Danskin let out a sigh, his face expressing regret. ‘Unfortunately, Miss Vale, I would not be able to do so. You see, there would be a conflict of interest. I told you I do work for other people, and – as it turns out – I was recently employed by Balshard Insurance, to investigate the fire at the Carousel Picture House. I was just one of a team of investigators, and I didn’t have a large role to play, but it would be enough to disqualify me from taking on Mrs Whittaker’s case.’
‘How so?’
‘Because, firstly, my work for Balshard is confidential and I had to sign an agreement not to divulge any information I unearthed in the case to a third party. And secondly …’ he paused, contemplating the right words ‘… secondly, I’m afraid all of the evidence did point to Richard Whittaker not packing the reels away properly – and that there was faulty wiring.’
‘What evidence is that?’
Danskin shrugged, ruefully. ‘That’s what I can’t tell you. But it was submitted to both the insurer and the fire department. I’m sorry, Miss Vale, but while I’m aware that Mrs Whittaker thinks differently, her brother-in-law was responsible for that fire. She is a woman overwrought with grief. The death of her husband – so soon after the fire – was a tragedy, and that’s clouding her thinking. But the rest of us, with cooler minds, need to see this for what it is. Giving her false hope will not help anyone.’
Clara sipped her glass of wine as she listened to Danskin’s explanation. And her heart sank. Poor Mrs Whittaker. But … a thought suddenly occurred to her. ‘All right, I hear what you’re saying. And I understand your position. However, why then did my Uncle Bob take on the case?’
Danskin’s rueful expression deepened. ‘I honestly don’t know, Miss Vale. And I don’t want to speak ill of the dead. As you know, I respected Bob Wallace immensely, but …’
‘But what?’
‘But your uncle was not in the best of health in the months before he died. And, well, perhaps that affected his judgement. He was acting erratically, quite out of character for him. I was most concerned.’
‘You’re saying my uncle was losing his marbles?’ asked Clara, incredulously.
Danskin shrugged again. ‘Unfortunately, Miss Vale, I am.’