The Royal Central Station Hotel was busy for a Monday night. A combination of summer school holidays and the North East Coast Exhibition had ensured near capacity in the six-storey hotel, with businessmen, exhibitors and out-of-town visitors buzzing in every lounge, bar and salon like bees in a hive. Clara was very glad she had booked her dinner table in advance. She had also extended her stay at the hotel. If she needed to be in Newcastle after that, she would again consider moving into Uncle Bob’s house.
The way things were going, that was increasingly likely. When she returned from her trip to Tynemouth and Whitley Bay, mid-afternoon, she had picked up two telegrams from reception. The first was from Mr Rose at Bloomsbury Library in response to the telegram she had sent telling him her stay in Newcastle needed to be extended in order to wrap up her uncle’s estate. He replied saying she could have a few more days but she absolutely must be back by next Monday at the latest. Clara doubted she would make that deadline, so that was very likely the end of her employment. She was surprisingly sanguine about it. She had been grateful for the work she had at the library, but the job could not be described as stimulating, not like the work she was doing now.
She lay back on her bed, fully dressed and ready for dinner, but taking a few moments to rest before the big night ahead of her. She crossed her legs at the ankles, careful not to wrinkle her clean silk stockings. Work? she asked herself. Is this really work? Could this possibly be a feasible future career? She had to admit, she had not been as excited as this since her first year at Somerville College, Oxford. A potential new future lay before her, far different from the one her parents had envisaged for her. Speaking of her parents, she unfolded and reread the second telegram she had received this afternoon.
TONY SAYS YOU’VE TAKEN HIS INHERITANCE FROM BOB. YOU DIDN’T TELL US YOU WERE UP IN NCL. CALL US THEN COME HOME IMMEDIATELY. MOTHER.
Clara snorted. Come home immediately? Not on your nelly! If there was an overwhelming reason to stay up here, move into Bob’s house and take over the agency, then it was this. To finally put some distance – geographically and financially – between her and her family. But there wasn’t just one reason, there were a number. The last few days had been exhilarating. She felt like she was really getting the hang of this detection business. And that had been the main purpose of her taking on the Whittaker case: to test herself. Added to which she hadn’t quite known how to turn down the distraught widow. But it was really Andrew’s suggestion, while she was umming and ahhing about it, that had prompted her to give it a go to see whether Bob was right. Her uncle had seen her potential as a detective; it looked like he might be proved right.
Was she actually on the brink of solving her first case? She had already accumulated a lot of evidence – scientific and circumstantial – and she would be writing up her report this evening. Then in the morning she would take it to Roger Jennings and ask him to see if it was possible to set up a meeting with a judge. But first, she had one more crucial piece of evidence to gather. She uncrossed her legs, sat up, straightened her stockings and slipped into her velvet pumps. She appraised herself for a moment in front of the dressing table mirror. If it weren’t too immodest to think so, she was looking smashing tonight. Her bobbed raven hair framed her carefully made-up face: kohl eyeliner, enough to highlight her dark (dare she say?) intelligent eyes, and red lipstick to accentuate her mouth, but not enough that she could be mistaken for a flapper. She ran her hands down her claret-coloured cocktail gown from breasts to hips and turned to view herself from front and back, pulling in her belly and lowering her shoulders to elongate her neck. Is this what a detective should look like? she asked herself.
‘Well, it is tonight,’ she said out loud as she slung her jewelled evening bag over her shoulder and picked up her velvet wrap.
A dance band was playing in the main ballroom with a Noël Coward soundalike crooning the lyrics of ‘World Weary’ into the microphone while couples foxtrotted clockwise around the room. Clara stood in the doorway between the ballroom and cocktail lounge and listened. She had heard Coward sing the song live in London when she’d accompanied Laura and Michael, her sister and brother-in-law, and Michael’s supposedly eligible bachelor cousin, to the revue This Year of Grace. Clara had enjoyed the revue, but would have enjoyed it more without the slavering attentions of The Cousin.
When she declined to return to Laura and Michael’s flat for a nightcap and asked to be dropped home in Bloomsbury instead, Laura was fuming. She telephoned the next morning, screeching like a banshee about Clara’s ingratitude and rudeness. ‘Word will get round, you know. There are only so many decent men these days, and if you snub your nose at perfectly respectable men like Brian, you will be taking yourself off the market.’
Clara informed her – shortly before slamming down the earpiece – that she had never been ‘on the market’, and had no intention of ever being so.
‘Fine!’ spat Laura. ‘Stay a virgin for the rest of your life. See if I care!’
The call was ended before Clara could give in to the temptation of telling her snooty sister that for her information, she wasn’t a virgin either!
Only once, Clara reminded herself. You’ve only had intercourse once. She thought back to the night in question all those years ago. She had been a little drunk, yes, but not drunk enough to not remember. She remembered all right. She remembered lots of panting, a little bit of pain and then, the beginnings of something rather lovely. She was just beginning to relax into the rhythm and focus on the way her body quivered and surged when, suddenly, Clive had said ‘sorry, old girl, that was it’. And then she remembered the sinking disappointment before they fell asleep, in the same bed, but miles apart: she wondering whether it would have been better if she’d waited until marriage, he … well, she had no idea what he was wondering, until the next morning and his fumbled proposal and hasty exit when she let him off the hook. The truth was, she was as relieved to see him go as he was.
She had spent the next few weeks doing two things: one, avoiding Clive; and two, waiting for her monthly cycle. She had never been very regular and her bleeding could come anywhere between three and seven weeks. A fellow student at Somerville had loaned her well-thumbed copies of Marie Stopes’ Married Love and Wise Parenthood. Judging by the titles alone, the books were not aimed at young women like Clara. Mrs Stopes was very clear in the foreword that her books were meant to give married women more control over their fertility and sexual relations with their husbands. However, after reading the chapters on how to ensure that women were equally pleasured by intercourse, Clara considered buying a copy and sending it, anonymously, to poor old Clive. Even though it was too late for her benefit, it might help some other woman in the future.
The disappointingly short-lived sex act aside, Clara was most concerned that she might be pregnant. It was a case of figuring out how to close the stable door once the horse had bolted, but she was relieved to find out that there were ways to reduce the chances of conception. If, Clara told herself, she got through to her next monthly bleed without being pregnant, and if, she added ruefully, she ever decided to have sex again, she now knew how to go about it.
Thankfully, her period did come, but in the eight years since she had not had the opportunity – or inclination – to put her new-found knowledge into practice. And she certainly wouldn’t be putting it into practice tonight. She did need to turn up the charm enough that her partner for the evening might be led to believe she found him attractive and that she might be wooed into the sack. Seeing as he looked like the film star Ronald Colman, that shouldn’t be too difficult, but flirting had never been Clara’s strong point. She hoped she could pull it off. The success of her investigation depended on it.
Jack Danskin joined her on the threshold between the cocktail lounge and the ballroom holding a Bee’s Knees cocktail in each hand. ‘Would you like to dance, Miss Vale?’
Clara turned to him and gave him what she hoped was a warm smile. ‘That would be lovely, Mr Danskin. Perhaps after dinner?’
Danskin grinned. ‘Everything in its proper order, eh? Cocktails, then dinner, then dancing, then …’ He let the words hang in the air.
Clara looked him firmly in the eyes. ‘Yes, Mr Danskin. Let’s do this in order.’
He offered her the cocktail. She took it and chinked glasses with him, their eyes still connected. Then he put a proprietorial arm around the small of her back and nudged her into the cocktail lounge. Against her normal instincts, she allowed herself to be guided, and they were soon seated at the same table she and Andrew had had drinks at on Friday evening.
‘So,’ he said, leaning back and draping one arm over the back of the chair. ‘How is your decision-making coming along?’
She leaned back too, hoping to mirror his relaxed demeanour. ‘Quite well, I think. I’ve had a very interesting week, getting to know more about Bob’s business and what it will take to run it.’
‘So I hear.’ He gave what could only be described as a rakish grin.
‘Oh?’ said Clara, reminding herself to sound nonchalant. ‘What have you heard?’
‘This and that. That and this. For instance, I heard you had a frightful day on Saturday.’ He lost the grin and gave her what she assumed was his compassionate look. ‘Seriously, Miss Vale, what a terrible thing for you and Mrs Whittaker to discover.’
She too banished any sign of a smile from her face. It wasn’t hard to do. ‘I assume you are referring to the body of Horace Fender.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, I’m referring to Fender’s suicide.’
‘You heard it was a suicide? And where did you hear that?’
Danskin cocked his head to the side. ‘In the Newcastle Journal, of course. Didn’t you know you’ve made the evening papers?’
This threw Clara. She had expected him to admit that he had heard from some of his enquiry agent sources. He had, by his own admission, worked for Balshard Insurance. She suspected he still did. However, this had wrong-footed her. She had hoped to trap him into disclosing something that he could not possibly have known unless he had been told so by Balshard or someone else involved in the investigation, or he had been following her. The man on the train could very easily have been Jack Danskin. Same build, similar age bracket. She had not even considered that Fender’s death would make the papers. But why wouldn’t it? Most suicides did. And as of two o’clock this afternoon, Mrs Fender would have identified his body and so the news could have been released in time for the evening edition. Clara chastised herself for making such an amateur error. She obviously wasn’t as good at this detective malarkey as she had thought. However, she would not be defeated and decided to regroup. She took a sip of her cocktail to give her time to do so, then asked: ‘What did it say?’
Danskin also took a sip of his drink then replied: ‘Not very much. Just that the body of a man had been found hanging by two ladies in a disused picture house in Whitley Bay and that the police were calling it a suicide.’
‘Did it mention who the two ladies were?’
Danskin shrugged. ‘It mentioned Mrs Whittaker, the widow of the former owner of the Paradise. And it said she was accompanied by a friend, a Miss Clara Vale.’
‘No mention of my profession?’
He grinned. ‘Miss Vale the librarian from Bloomsbury? Or Miss Vale the science graduate from Oxford University?’
Clara paused, her glass halfway to her lips. She did not recall mentioning her employment status to Danskin. ‘No, I meant my profession acting on behalf of Wallace Enquiry Agency.’
‘Ah, that. No, it did not mention that you were playing detective.’ He smirked. ‘So how is it going? Have you decided you want to continue with this line of work, or are you prepared to sell the agency?’
‘I have decided that I will see this investigation to its conclusion and then make a decision.’
‘And how far are you away from that?’
She raised an eyebrow and smiled in a way that she hoped was winsome. ‘I’m not entirely sure, but I’m making significant progress and will be presenting my findings to the authorities soon.’
‘And which authorities are those?’
‘I have connections within the judiciary who are aware of my situation.’ Clara hoped her measured delivery would convince Danskin this was true. It would be true, if Roger Jennings made an introduction for her, but that, of course, had not happened yet. Danskin would not know that. Or would he? Clara decided to deflect.
‘I think our table is ready. Should we go?’ She raised her hand to call over the waiter, not particularly caring that it was normally the man’s role to do so.
‘Yes, let’s,’ said Danskin, homing in once more on her eyes. ‘I’m famished.’
The waiter arrived and removed their glasses as Clara allowed Danskin to usher her towards the dining room.
They were just starting their dessert course when Clara managed to steer the conversation back to the Paradise investigation. Danskin had been very chatty about his life and background, as if this were an evening that was really aimed at getting to know a potential professional – or indeed, marriage – partner. He was the son of a greengrocer who had started out as a barrow boy, then moved to a stall in the Grainger Market, before buying a corner shop in Blaydon. Danskin’s mother spent her time looking after six children. Jack was the third eldest. He had finished school at fourteen and instead of working in the family shop – which was already staffed by his two elder siblings – he had joined the Post Office. He had worked his way up through the ranks until he had been appointed assistant head of security in charge of investigating postal fraud. That was how he got into detection work. Then came the war. After he returned, he decided to not go back to the Post Office, and instead took up his first assignment working for an enquiry agent.
‘And the rest is history.’ He grinned. ‘I’ve been doing this for over a decade now. It’s time to move up the ladder.’
‘And get your own agency?’ asked Clara.
‘Exactly that.’ He leaned back and hooked his thumbs into his cummerbund – the picture of a self-satisfied man.
‘Why don’t you just start your own?’
He laughed. ‘I’ve told you, I don’t want to deal with the administration.’
‘You can hire someone to do that.’
‘I could,’ he said, pursing his lips. ‘But my first thought was to go into partnership. Which is why I asked you.’ He leaned forward, his eyes trying to hold hers.
She cleared her throat. ‘But I’m not interested in a partnership,’ she said firmly, then smiled, hoping to take the edge off her words.
Danskin’s eyes narrowed – just a touch – before his easy smile returned. ‘That’s the impression I got the last time we spoke. But as you wanted to see me again, I thought you might have changed your mind. Now that you know a bit more about what running an agency entails. How hard it can be to get the police – or anyone – to take you seriously. Especially you being a woman.’
It was Clara’s turn to narrow her eyes. ‘Why do you think the police are not taking me seriously?’
Danskin opened his hands, placatingly. ‘Because I know the police in these parts. And I know what they would think of a lady detective – even if you are Bob Wallace’s niece. Having a man as a partner would help you get around that.’
Clara could feel her anger bubbling. She tried to keep a lid on it. ‘Why do I need to get around that? When they see I can do just as good a job as a man, why should it bother them that I’m a woman?’
Danskin shook his head. ‘Come, come, Clara, you’re not that naïve. You know how the world works. I’m telling you, taking me on as your partner is your best option to keep this business going. Assuming you will be able to hang onto the business, that is. And I could help you with that too.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
Danskin let out a long sigh and leaned back in his chair, giving off the aura of a man who felt very much in control. ‘I’ve been contacted by your brother’s solicitor.’
Clara sat bolt upright. ‘You’ve what?’
‘Your brother, Antony Vale. His solicitor was given my name as someone who could testify in a court hearing about your uncle’s mental competence in the months before he died.’
‘I – what – when? Who the hell gave him your name?’ Clara spluttered, the bubbling anger approaching boiling point.
Danskin shrugged, still appearing maddeningly calm. ‘He didn’t say. But he did say that your brother would make it worth my while if I were to tell the truth about your Uncle Bob. He said he has no interest in running the business himself and would be happy to sell it to me for a reasonable price, if he can inherit the rest of your uncle’s estate.’
‘But I have inherited Bob’s estate,’ said Clara, her voice rising and drawing the attention of other diners.
Danskin leaned forward, giving her his ‘compassionate look’. ‘Yes, I know. That’s what I told him. However …’ He let the words hang between them.
‘What?’ snapped Clara.
‘However, this sort of legal wrangling can go on for months. Years, sometimes. I’ve been involved in these sorts of things before. And in the meantime, your life will be in limbo. On the other hand …’ he cocked his head to one side ‘… we can make your brother’s claim go away very quickly.’
‘How?’ asked Clara.
‘By me telling him that whoever told him I thought Bob had lost his marbles was mistaken. That if I testify it will be to say that he was as sharp as a tack up to the day he died.’
Clara’s breathing was becoming laboured. She worked to relax her shoulders and quell her shuddering breath. ‘But that’s not what you believe. You told me yourself, you thought Bob was getting confused about some things.’
Danskin nodded. ‘I did. But I could say I was mistaken.’
‘And why would you say that?’
‘Because it would mean more to me if you and I went into business together.’
Clara shook her head, incredulously. ‘But why?’
He smiled. ‘Why not? You need an experienced hand. I can handle the likes of Detective Inspector Davidson. I am familiar with most, if not all, of Bob’s open cases. You need me.’
Clara’s breathing was beginning to come under control. She took a sip of wine, glad to see that her hand was steady. ‘That might very well be the case, Mr Danskin, but the question is, why do you need me, if Antony is offering to sell you the business anyway?’
Danskin shrugged. ‘Because that’s really just a long shot, isn’t it? And if I do testify against Bob, and the judge still decides in your favour, there will be bad blood between us.’
He leaned across the table and took her hand. She cringed but willed herself not to show it.
His eyes found hers again. ‘And bad blood is the last thing I want between us, Clara.’
Clara smiled tightly. ‘I can’t say I want bad blood either, Jack. Even if we don’t formally go into partnership, I’m sure we may work together informally in the future. You’ve already been immensely helpful to me.’
He let go of her hand, leaned back and laughed. ‘Oh, Clara, you do need to work on your acting skills.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, retrieving her hand and clasping them both under the table.
He gave a patronising smile. ‘You do deadpan all right, but charm is not your best suit. But that’s what I like about you. I find you fascinating, Clara Vale. And now,’ he said, standing and reaching out his hand, ‘as promised earlier, everything in its correct order. It is now time to dance. Shall we?’
Clara stared at him, stung by his sense of entitlement. Her voice was cool and crisp as she said, ‘I think not, Mr Danskin. As you have already noted yourself, charm is not my best suit. But honesty is. And honestly, I don’t know if I can trust you. To dance with you or to go into business with you. So perhaps it’s time to call it a night.’
Danskin lowered his voice. ‘Are you sure you want to do that, Clara? We have a lot more to discuss.’
She put down her napkin and stood up. ‘On the contrary, Mr Danskin, I think we’ve discussed enough.’ She grabbed her wrap from the back of her chair and walked through the restaurant towards the cocktail lounge, aware of Danskin’s eyes on her every step of the way. Through the door, she turned the corner, out of his eyeline, and approached the bar. She spoke quietly to the barman. ‘Did you get them?’ she asked.
‘I did, miss. Just the way you told me to. Would you like them now?’
‘No. I don’t want anyone to see me with them. Bring them, with a bottle of champagne and two clean glasses, to my room.’ She slipped a sovereign across the bar.