Once Rollo and Oscar were bundled into the Black Mariah – Oscar looking morose, Rollo grinning from ear to ear and winking at Poppy and Daniel – the photographer pulled Poppy out of earshot of the other journalists and demanded to know what was going on.
Her cheek throbbed, and the dust and cobwebs on her hat and coat from her subterranean adventure burned her eyes, making her sneeze. She dusted herself off as best she could, spanked her hat and examined the welt on her face in her compact mirror. Ouch. That was going to leave an impressive bruise.
“So?” demanded Daniel. “What happened?”
“I’ll tell you on the way back to the office.” Poppy took his arm and led him back to the motor, ignoring the curious stares from rival journalists.
“Where’s Marjorie?” she asked as he opened the passenger door of the Model T.
“She’s off to Scotland Yard to demand Oscar’s release. But don’t change the subject; I want to know what happened to you and Rollo. Why do you look like you’ve been run over by a bus, and how on earth did Rollo get inside the club – not to mention get himself arrested?”
He shut her door, put his camera in the boot, cranked up the engine and then climbed into the driver’s seat. Poppy used the time to consider her options. Was she able to tell Daniel about the tunnel? Rollo said he’d been sworn to secrecy. But he’d told her about it – on a need-to-know basis. Could she tell Daniel? Would she be betraying a confidence? Surely the tunnel was no longer a secret. The police now knew about it, so Oscar’s contingency plan for getting booze into the club was obsolete. Yes, she decided, she’d tell him. It had caused no end of problems the last time she had to keep something from him when she was working on a story. She didn’t want a repeat of that. There was more than their professional relationship at stake.
“Rollo took me through a secret underground tunnel.”
“He what?” asked Daniel, incredulously.
Poppy explained what had happened in the tunnel and the cellar. “And then I ran into a ladder,” she said, gingerly touching her cheek.
“Is that a euphemism for Rollo putting you in unnecessary danger?” asked Daniel, barely controlling his fury.
“No, it’s exactly what happened. I ran into a ladder. And it hurt. A lot.” She pouted, giving him the little-girl-lost look that he normally found so amusing.
But it didn’t work. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his lips tight. “I will kill that stupid little Yankee when I get my hands on him! He’d better pray the coppers keep him in jail, because he’ll be looking at the inside of a coffin if they ever let him out!”
“It’s not his fault, Daniel. He was just following the story. We both were.”
“By putting you in danger.”
“I wasn’t in danger. And neither was Rollo.”
“He got arrested!” shouted Daniel.
“And look how happy he was about it.” Poppy’s voice rose to meet his. “I wouldn’t put it past him if that was his plan all along. At least now he’s on the inside of the investigation and will have a chance to speak to Oscar about what really happened.”
Daniel slowed down and turned right onto Victoria Street. When they got back into the flow of traffic he turned to Poppy, his face still flush with anger.
“But he had no right to drag you along with him.”
“He didn’t drag me. I chose to go with him. I could have said no at any point. I didn’t. And besides, he made sure the police didn’t catch me. He protected me. Not that I needed protecting…”
“But you do need protecting. You’re just a –” He stopped speaking and bit his lip.
Poppy felt a rush of anger. “I’m just a what? A woman?” Daniel drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “That’s not what I was going to say. I was going to say you’re just new on the job. You’ve got a lot to learn.”
“And I am learning. On the job. And I’m grateful that Rollo doesn’t molly-coddle me the way you do.”
Daniel turned to her and momentarily took his eyes off the road. A taxi blared its horn as the Model T veered too close. Daniel swore and got the vehicle under control as they passed the Palace of Westminster and approached the intersection to the Victoria Embankment.
“I molly-coddle you, Poppy, because I love you. I will worry about you. I will be angry with anyone who puts you in danger. And that includes you. But if that’s not what you want…”
He left the ambiguous threat of break-up hanging in the air while he slowed down to allow a family to cross the road at a pelican crossing. The children were squabbling and the mother tried to intervene while carrying a big bag of shopping.
Is that my future? thought Poppy. If I marry Daniel, will I be expected to give up work to be a mother to his children? Would he consider it inappropriate for his wife to be gallivanting around London following news stories?
“That’s not fair, Daniel. Don’t make this about us. It’s not about us.”
“Isn’t it?” he asked.
She crossed her arms over her chest and looked out of the window.
Poppy and Daniel arrived back at Fleet Street in silence. As they parked in the alley behind The Globe offices Daniel looked across at her with furrowed brows, but looked away again when she tried to meet his eye. He was cross with her. And she was cross with him for being cross with her.
But she didn’t have time to deal with it now. As Delilah had pointed out there was a killer on the loose, and Poppy had an article to write before deadline.
She got out of the motor and without a backward glance walked through the basement where the printing presses were churning out the evening edition, and pressed the lift button for the fourth floor.
“Poppy!” Daniel called. But she ignored him, pulling the gate shut and leaving him to field the knowing looks and comments from the printer staff.
Poppy examined her swollen cheek in the lift mirror. It was beginning to turn purple. She thought of covering it with a bit of make-up, but decided against it. First, it was too tender to touch; secondly, she was rather proud of it. It was her war wound from the journalistic trenches and she would wear it like a badge of honour.
The lift stopped at the third floor and Poppy braced herself to meet whoever came in. It was young Vicky Thompson, carrying some files.
Vicky gasped. “Miss Denby! What happened?”
“I had a run-in with a ladder.”
“Golly! Are you all right? Do you need to see a doctor?”
“No, I think I’m fine, Vicky. It’s just bruised.”
“Cor blimey, you’re gonna have a right shiner!”
Poppy chuckled at Vicky’s slip back into Cockney. The seventeen-year-old was the daughter of a window cleaner and a washer woman from the East End of London. Poppy had met her on the Dorchester story in the summer and had given the girl a chance to have a career. Vicky had jumped at it and for the last few months had been trying to sound as posh as she thought she ought to for a job on Fleet Street. Poppy – who had a Northumbrian accent herself – had tried to tell her that she needn’t be ashamed of who she was or how she spoke, but to no avail.
“Actually, Vicky, I’m glad I’ve caught you. I need a couple of Jazz Files.”
Vicky grinned. “Way ahead of you, Miss Denby.” She passed the files to her. They were for Adam Lane, Oscar Reynolds, Andrei Nogovski, Vasili Safin and Arthur Watts.
“How did you know?”
The lift stopped at the fourth floor and the two women got out. On the landing Vicky cocked her head towards the newsroom and said: “Mr Molanov sent me up with the Rusky ones. Then the darkie asked for the rest.”
Poppy frowned. Vicky had not quite got over the fact that she was working with a West Indian gentleman who was her senior. Where Vicky came from in the East End, boarding houses had signs outside declaring “No Jews, Irish or Negroes”. Come to think of it, some of the posher establishments in the West End had the same.
“You mean Mr Garfield,” she chastised.
“Sorry, yes, Mr Garfield.” Vicky looked at her feet and muttered: “And I’m sorry about Miss Marconi too.”
“What about her?” Poppy slapped her hand to her mouth. Oh no! She’d forgotten about Delilah. She’d forgotten to telephone as she’d promised to tell Delilah the name of the murder victim at Oscar’s – to assure her it wasn’t Adam.
“Mrs Bradshaw and me couldn’t stop her. When she woke up she wanted to know where you were. We told her what you’d said about telephoning from the club. She said she couldn’t wait for that and would go and see for herself. We couldn’t stop her, miss, I swear. If you don’t believe me, ask Mrs Bradshaw. She’ll tell you. We tried our best. We –”
Poppy patted Vicky’s shoulder. “It’s all right. It’s not your fault. The whole British Army couldn’t keep Delilah from doing what she wants to do. Did she say where exactly she was going?”
“She didn’t, miss. I’m sorry.”
Poppy sighed. That’s all she needed. A hysterical Delilah trying to find Adam – a man who may or may not have just killed someone in a cellar in Chelsea. Poppy held the files to her chest. She needed to get to work. There was no point trying to track down Delilah. She’d no doubt go to Oscar’s and find out that Adam was not the victim. Hopefully that would calm her down and she would go home. Her flat was just a couple of blocks up the road. She would telephone Aunt Dot and ask Miss King to pop down and see if she could find her. Yes, that’s what she would do.
Vicky was still looking at her anxiously.
Poppy smiled. “Don’t worry, Vicky, you did your best. And thank you for these files. You’ve been a grand help.”
Vicky flushed at the compliment and the forgiveness it implied. “Thank you, Miss Denby. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Poppy smiled. “A cup of coffee would be lovely. Can you bring it to Mr Garfield’s desk?” she asked.
“Of course, miss. And I’ll bring one for him as well, shall I? Do you know how he likes it?”
Pleased that her lesson in tolerance had been taken on board, Poppy gave Vicky the coffee order and then opened the door to the newsroom. Through the nicotine haze she spotted Ike Garfield on the telephone. After fielding a few concerned queries from some of the other journalists, she sat in the spare chair at his desk to wait for him.
He finished his call at the same time as Vicky arrived with the coffee. He looked surprised. “Thank you, Miss Thompson; that’s very kind of you.”
Vicky flushed. “You’re welcome, Mr Garfield, sir.” Then she hastened a retreat.
He gave a knowing look at Poppy, then pulled up when he saw her cheek.
“Heavens, Poppy! What happened?”
Poppy sighed, leaned back in her chair and sipped her coffee. She waited a moment for the sweet, warm brew to work its magic and then she launched into her explanation.
As she wrapped up she finished with: “Rollo said to tell you you’re in charge.”
He grinned, his large square teeth like piano keys. “I know. That was Yasmin Reece-Lansdale on the blower. Rollo used his one telephone call to bring her in as his solicitor. She’s working on getting him out now.”
“On instruction to not work too quickly, I bet,” said Poppy, winking at Ike.
Ike laughed. “You know Rollo too well, Miss Denby.”
Poppy gave a lopsided grin, trying not to engage her cheek muscles on the bruised side of her face. “So what did she say?”
“Rollo’s fine. He managed to talk to Oscar in the Black Mariah before they were told to shut up by the old bill. It didn’t make sense when I first heard it, but now you’ve told me about the tunnel it does. Oscar says he heard a commotion in the cellar, looked through his peephole and saw Arthur Watts, the barman, having an argument with someone. He couldn’t see who the person was. By the time he got from his office to the cellar, Watts had been attacked and the assailant had disappeared. Oscar had tried to save Watts, but it was too late. He ran out of the cellar to get help, and was seen, covered in blood, by the delivery bloke. Seems like this chappie has it in for Oscar, as he was planning on changing suppliers. Oscar claims he fudged his statement to the police, saying he’d heard Oscar and Watts fighting before Oscar ran out covered in blood. But that couldn’t have happened, because Watts was already fatally wounded by the time Oscar got in. Allegedly.”
“Allegedly?” asked Poppy, raising her eyebrow over the coffee mug.
“Well, we’ve only got Oscar’s word for it,” clarified Ike.
“But Rollo believes him.”
Ike nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, he does. But there is no evidence to support it.”
“Isn’t there?” asked Poppy. “Then where’s the weapon? If Oscar stabbed Watts with a… do they know what it was yet?”
Ike nodded. “Probably a rapier again. The medical officer will still need to confirm it.”
Poppy nodded in agreement. “Well, if Oscar stabbed Watts with a rapier, where is it? There was no sword when Rollo and I were there. The police could already have taken it, of course…”
“They didn’t. Apparently the murder weapon has not yet been found.”
“So that backs up Oscar’s story of the third man,” concluded Poppy. “And of course there was the tunnel.”
Ike put down his empty coffee cup and leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head.
“Well done, Miss Denby. I think we have enough for a story.” He chuckled. “The other papers will be going with Rollo Rolandson and Oscar Reynolds being arrested for murder and conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. We’ll go with ‘Jazz club murderer escapes through secret tunnel’.”
Poppy frowned. “I don’t know if Oscar will want that to be made public.”
Ike pursed his lips. “I’m sorry, Poppy; I can’t ignore it. It’s too strong a story.”
Poppy sighed. She knew he was right. “Fine. But don’t reveal the location of the tunnel entrance if you don’t have to.”
Ike smiled. “We don’t have to.” He straightened his notebook and put a sheet of paper in his Remington typewriter. “Right, you work through those files, Poppy, and see what you can come up with. I’ll get the lead done for the morning’s edition.”
He didn’t wait for her to leave before his fingers started pounding the keyboard.