CHAPTER 13

Billy was in a state of panic. When Beech had turned up at the Murcheson house, banging on the basement door, fit to wake the dead, Billy had lurched from his bed, wondering what had happened. He’d been expecting to be told that Dodds or the girl had been found—or something to do with the case—but when Beech had told him gravely that Hoxton had been bombed by a Zeppelin, his world had fallen apart. He couldn’t breathe and Beech, recognizing a case of shock from his months in the trenches, had forced a brandy down Billy’s throat and helped him dress, talking to him all the while—reassuring him that he would manage, he would cope.

“We’ll go to the nearest fire station and see if they have a tender going out and can give you a lift,” Beech had said. “If necessary, I’ll call the Yard and see if they can get a vehicle out. We’ll get you there, Billy. By hook or by crook.”

Beech had propelled Billy toward the door and called back to the trembling Cook, “I’ll be back as soon as I can! Get your ladies dressed and ready. I shall be taking you to Mayfair as soon as I get back.” Then he had gripped the stumbling Billy firmly under the elbow and supported him toward the fire station near Victoria Station. All the way there he had kept up his constant reassuring, morale-boosting talk until it gradually began to seep into Billy’s brain and he began to respond.

Billy had turned a tear-stained face toward Beech and finally said, “I want to kill a German with my bare hands, sir. I want to kill someone …” then he had trailed off, realizing how stupid and ineffectual he had sounded.

Beech had been encouraged. Anger was good. Anger was motivating. “We all want to kill a German tonight, Rigsby. But you find your mother and her sisters and sort them out first, alright?”

Billy had nodded and wiped his tears from his face.

Beech’s instincts had been right. When they got to the fire station, the firemen were just loading up more hoses for another run to the East End.

Beech had flashed his warrant card. “I’ve got an officer here who has family in Hoxton. Can you give him a lift?”

A fireman had jumped down and shouted, “No problem! Can he get up on the top of the tender with my men?”

Beech had helped Billy up on to the raised area behind the driving seat.

“Mind your head on the ladder, son,” the fireman had shouted above the din of the ladder being winched into its traveling position in between the firemen and just above their heads. The fireman behind Billy, sensing that he was a bit insecure, had grasped him firmly on the shoulder and had said, “I’ll keep hold of you, lad! We don’t want to have to stop and pick you up off the road!”

Beech had shouted, “Let me know how you get on!” as the fire engine growled into life and started clanging its bell.

So now Billy was speeding toward Hoxton, grateful that the noise of the bell was preventing him from focusing his thoughts into something terrible and unable to cry because his face was bearing the full brunt of the wind caused by the speed at which they were traveling.

His chest grew tighter as he could now smell the smoke of countless fires and it brought back the terrors of Mons and the choking smoke of the battlefield. He could feel his body trembling and, obviously, so could the sympathetic fireman behind who simply placed his other hand firmly on Billy’s other shoulder and patted it.

As the fire engine turned into the Goswell Road, Billy could see the fires burning and he couldn’t swallow. All he could think about was his mother and her little dog, her beloved Timmy, and how he would cope if he had to drag her body out of the rubble. He could see that the fire engine was going to go past the end of his road and he yelled, “Can you let me off here!,” to the driver. The engine slowed and Billy scrabbled off, falling over as he hit the road. He stood upright and waved a grateful thanks to the crew as the fire engine gathered speed again, then he began to run, faster than he had ever run in his life.

Number twenty five … number twenty seven … number twenty nine … the house was still there! Tears began to run down his face. “Mum! Mum!” he started screaming and he kicked down the front door with such force that it splintered one of the hinges. “Mum!” he yelled again and suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, a little brown-and-white terrier hurtled down the hallway at him, yapping manically, and threw himself into his arms. The familiar figure of his mother, in her dressing gown, her hair in rags, appeared in the kitchen doorway,

“Look what you’ve done to my front door, Billy!” she said in annoyance as her son flung himself to his knees and sobbed with relief. “There, there, son,” she said cradling his head to her stomach, “don’t take on so. Me and Timmy’s alright. Your old mum’s too tough for the Germans and no mistake.”

Billy laughed through his tears and stood up. “You gave me a fright, ma,” he said, holding back yet more tears. “I thought I was going to have to dig your lifeless body out of the rubble.”

“Gawd, you’ve got some imagination, you have,” she said softly, stroking his hair. “Come and sit down, son, and have a tot of gin. I can’t offer you no cup of tea, ’cos they’ve turned the gas off.”

“What about Sissy and Ada?” Billy said, wiping his face with his hands and enquiring after his aunts.

“Both fine. Ada’s missed it all, on account of her visiting her sister-in-law in Brighton this week, and Sissy’s just gone up the road to get a jug of tea from them ladies running a tea stall, bless ’em. You got to hand it to the British, Billy. Whenever there’s an emergency, there’ll always be some kindly souls out there running a tea stall. They come over from Liverpool Street Station, Sissy said, where they were serving tea to returning sailors. Good job they come over here too, ’cos we hear that bloody Zeppelin is heading over that way now. God! You’d think it would have run out of bombs by this time, wouldn’t you?”

A small, wet nose nuzzled Billy’s hand and he leant down and picked up Timmy.

“Poor little soul,” said Billy’s mum. “He didn’t know what was happening when the bombs dropped. I thought he was going to have a heart attack. I couldn’t bear it if my little Timmy died,” and for the first time that night, she allowed herself a little spell of crying. Billy, his mum, and the dog, huddled together in a grateful embrace, which was only broken by a raucous voice calling, “Bloody hell! What happened to your door, Elsie?!”

“Oh, here we go, Sissy’s back. Man the lifeboats.” Billy’s mum laughed.

Sissy appeared, carrying a large metal jug filled with steaming hot tea. Her face was a picture of astonishment. “The Kaiser been round and personally smashed your front door in, Elsie?” she asked.

Elsie chuckled. “Don’t be daft. It was Billy. He thought his old mum was a gonner and he kicked the door in!”

Sissy put down the jug and gave Billy a big hug and a large wet kiss on his cheek. “Soppy sod,” she said, brushing away a stray tear. “You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backward,” she said, producing a handkerchief, spitting on it, and proceeding to clean Billy’s face. He felt like he was five years old again and screwed up his face.

“Leave it out, Aunty!” he protested, trying to stand up, but she pushed him back onto the chair and continued to wipe the tear stains from his cheeks. “There!” she pronounced herself finished. “Time for a cup of tea, I think. I’m that parched, I feel as though I’ve just walked through a desert.” She busied herself finding cups and pouring tea.

They all sat and drank, in silence, listening to the shouting and general mayhem in the street, punctuated by a not-so-distant explosion.

“Half of the next street’s gone,” said Sissy quietly. She tried hard not to cry, and added brokenly, “Those six Bradshaw kids at number sixty-two and old Arthur at number ninety.” She set her face hard and said bitterly, “It’s always the poor what cops it. I don’t suppose they’ve had any bombs fall on the fancy mansions up West.”

Everyone bowed their heads and stared into their cups of tea, unable to think of anything to say.

Finally Elsie said, “We’ve been lucky tonight. I shall say a prayer for those who were lost.”

Billy stirred. “Maybe I should go outside and help.” He stood up and buttoned up his greatcoat.

Elsie grabbed his arm. “It’s too dangerous, Billy, I don’t want to be mourning you as well!”

“Ma,” he said reassuringly, patting her hand, “the Zeppelin has moved away. It’s not dangerous anymore. I’m a policeman and there’s people out there who need help. You two stay here with the dog and try and get some rest. I’ll be back before morning and we’ll sort something out. Alright, Mum?”

Elsie nodded.

“You be careful out there!” called Sissy, as Billy walked down the hallway,

“And put that bloody door up straight!” she bawled, as a parting shot. Billy grinned and lifted the door on its one remaining hinge and propped it up in its frame. Then he turned, put his helmet on, and braced himself for action.

Sissy was right. Their street was untouched, save for a few windows blown in and the odd crumbled chimney. It was the next street that had borne the brunt of the bombs and, as he looked toward the horizon, it seemed as though north of Hoxton was in flames.

Billy strode toward the collapsed houses and saw that there was a fire crew and three policemen shifting rubble. He tapped the nearest policeman on the shoulder. “Want some help?” he said briskly.

The policeman nodded. “Start shifting rubble as fast as you can, mate. We’re hoping for some live ones.”

Billy took off his greatcoat and helmet, laid them at the side of the road and started work.

*   *   *

By five o’clock in the morning, Billy, and all the other men, were exhausted. A pale dawn had managed to filter through the pall of smoke and dust that hung over the north and east of London. The Zeppelin had long disappeared out over the horizon and fires were now burning in Shoreditch and Whitechapel. The night had been punctuated by constant ringing bells from fire engines and ambulances, ferrying backward and forward with firemen, doctors, and nurses. The wounded had gradually come out of their houses—people who had been blown across their front room by the force of the blast but had been too frightened to come out until they were sure that the Zeppelin had passed. Nurses were dealing with cuts and bruises at the side of the road, while those with broken bones were loaded into ambulances.

Clearing the rubble had been a fruitless task. Three dead bodies had been removed but, so far, no living beings except for one cat that had survived in a pocket of air underneath what had once been a staircase. One of the men gave it some water and, after a few hesitant steps, it had curled up on Billy’s greatcoat and fallen asleep. The Liverpool Street tea wagon had drawn up close by and men were pausing to gratefully take mouthfuls of tea. One of the recently arrived firemen said to Billy, “You look like hell, lad. Take a break and let the new blokes take over.”

Billy sank to the ground gratefully by his greatcoat and looked at the sleeping cat. He was wondering what to do about it, when a young girl with a bandaged arm came up and asked, “Is that your cat, mister?”

Billy shook his head. “Pulled it out of the ruins over there.” He pointed at the furthest pile of rubble, which now seemed much smaller.

“It’s my grandma’s then,” she said dully and she picked up the cat, stroking it and murmuring, “Come on, Samson,” as she walked away.

Poor little beggar’s lost her grandma but she’s not crying, thought Billy, and, despite his tiredness, he felt a small surge of anger once more and decided to go back to his mother’s house.

He found Sissy and his mother asleep, slumped over the kitchen table with the dog at their feet. He gently picked up the metal jug and tiptoed out to get a refill for them. “Don’t put too much milk in it,” whispered Sissy, without raising her head and Billy smiled.

*   *   *

After Billy had left for Hoxton, Beech had walked back to the Murcheson house to find a small rebellion on his hands. The three women were dressed and had hastily packed bags at their feet but Cook had announced that she and Anne were leaving London and the Murcheson house for good.

“Lady Harriet’s likely to die, sir. There’s no one here to cook for and now the Germans are dropping bombs on us. I’m off to my brother’s house in Surrey and Anne here has got family in Wales. Sorry, sir, but we see no point in staying.” The woman had been adamant and Beech had been powerless to persuade her otherwise. Esme had been tearful and didn’t want to stay in the house on her own, so Beech had managed to persuade her to come back to Mayfair with him. The house had been locked up and they had all gone their separate ways—Cook to Victoria Station, Anne to wait for a night bus to Paddington Station, Beech and Esme departing on foot to Mayfair.

By the time they had reached Mayfair, Beech was worrying about the Belgravia house being empty and the possibility of losing the opportunity to apprehend Dodds, should he return. So, with a cursory explanation to Victoria regarding the situation, he had turned on his heel and had walked back, yet again, to Belgravia.

Unable to sleep, he had lain awake on Dodds’ bed, fully clothed, until the light began to creep into the basement and he had decided to make some tea and find something to eat. Looking at the kitchen clock, he had realized that it was now almost seven in the morning. It was while he was investigating the multitude of cupboards in the kitchen that he was startled by banging on the basement door and he opened it to find a dirty and disheveled Billy Rigsby in front of him, carrying two bags and flanked by two women and a dog.

“I didn’t know where else to take them, sir,” said Billy, apologetically.

A relieved Beech suddenly found himself in the midst of a whirlwind of activity. Billy’s mother and aunt, who had apparently both been in service in their youth, settled in, and it wasn’t long before they were producing food from all quarters of the kitchen, while Billy was making up the sluggish fire that Cook had left to burn itself out in the stove.

“Oh thank you for being so kind, sir,” chattered Elsie, as she took a large cast-iron frying pan down from a hook on the wall. “We was beside ourselves in Hoxton, what with no gas and running water. Billy said you wouldn’t mind if we stopped here for a bit. We won’t be no trouble—will we, Sissy?”

“No,” Sissy added, “we’ll keep the place spick and span and we don’t mind sleeping in a cupboard, if that’s all there is. And Timmy here is no trouble.”

“I think he wants to go out, Ma,” said Billy, nodding at the dog, who was whining by the back door.

Elsie unlocked the door and let the little terrier out. “Sissy!” she shrieked, making Beech jump. “Look at this garden!”

Sissy rushed over to admire the view. “That dog of yours will think he’s died and gone to heaven,” she said in wonder.

Billy sat down opposite Beech and looked apologetic again. “Sorry, sir. The ladies in my family are a bit loud.”

Beech grinned. “Don’t apologize, Rigsby. It’s delightful. I am so relieved that they are alive and well. How was it in Hoxton?”

“Grim, sir,” and Billy explained all about the damage, the dead bodies, the smoke, fire, explosions, and general horror that he had experienced. “The East End was lucky last night, if you can call it that, sir,” he added. “One of the ambulance drivers said that he had heard at the London Hospital that there were only a couple of dozen killed. It could have been much more.”

Beech nodded soberly. “I fear that they will come back,” he said. Then he looked around at Elsie, who was beginning to fry bacon. “That smells good!” he exclaimed.

“I’m going to do us all a big fry-up, Mr Beech,” she said cheerfully. “Ooh, that dog can smell bacon a mile off!” she added as Timmy came skittering in through the open back door, tail wagging. Sissy appeared with some eggs and mushrooms and the two of them began some serious work, frying up, slicing, and buttering bread.

“I expect we’ll have a furious cook descend on us from upstairs in a minute,” warned Sissy.

“Er … no, you won’t,” answered Beech and then gave a detailed explanation of the staff mutiny. “So you will have the house to yourselves for the foreseeable future,” he added.

When they were all tucking into the feast laid before them and Timmy had been given his own saucer of chopped up bacon, Beech decided to explain the whole case of the Murcheson murder and the subsequent events of the last three days. Elsie and Sissy tutted between mouthfuls.

“So how is this poor Lady Harriet?” asked Elsie.

“Suspended between life and death, the last I heard, and no news either way since,” replied Beech, helping himself to another slice of bread to mop up his egg yolk. “I hope it won’t bother you—being in a house where a murder has taken place?” Beech was suddenly concerned.

Billy grinned. “My aunt Sissy used to work for the local undertaker, sir. Dead bodies don’t bother her none.”

“Good Lord!”

Sissy nodded. “I used to lay them out—you know, wash the bodies, brush their hair, put a bit of make-up on the ladies—that sort of thing,” she said nonchalantly. “Besides, I don’t believe in ghosts. If such a thing existed, London would be full of them, Mr Beech,” she said with an air of finality. “You wouldn’t be able to move for the spirits of the dead.”

“Quite.” Beech was fascinated by these two strong and capable women. “It strikes me, ladies,” he ventured, “that you would be doing Lady Harriet a favor by keeping this place in reasonable shape while she’s ill. A bit of light dusting, that sort of thing. If you wouldn’t mind?”

Elsie beamed. “In return for a safe place to sleep, Mr Beech! I should think we’d be more than happy to do that!”

Beech felt duty-bound, however, to warn them about the possibility of Dodds returning.

Sissy was scornful. “He won’t get far past the threshold while we’re here, sir! Don’t you worry.”

Beech seemed unsure until Billy said, laughing, “Who do you think taught me to throw a punch, sir? My aunt Sissy’s the best boxing coach I ever had!”

Sissy clenched her fist in mock anger and growled. They all subsided in laughter.

Beech stood and patted his stomach in satisfaction. “Well, ladies, I must go to Scotland Yard now and deal with the overnight reports. Doubtless I shall have a mountain of paperwork to deal with, given last night’s activity. Thank you for that splendid meal, which will set me up for the rest of the day.” He turned to Billy. “Rigsby, you must get some sleep, you must be done in. Perhaps we could gather at Lady Maud’s house around lunchtime? Tollman will hold the fort until then.”

“Yes, sir.”

Beech let himself out and the Rigsby clan gathered for a hug of congratulation.

“I told you he was a good man, didn’t I?” Billy chided them.

“He’s a proper gentleman,” agreed Elsie.

“Fancy him just letting us take over this place!” Sissy marveled. “And not a word about Timmy, either!” She turned to Elsie in triumph. “This is going to put Ada’s nose out of joint, Else! She’s always banging on about her sister-in-law’s cottage in Brighton, like it was some palace or something. Well, now we can write to her and tell her that we’re living up the road from the King and Queen. She’ll have a right fit!”

Tollman arrived at Mayfair, with the early edition of the newspaper under his arm, to find a clutch of women, still in their nightdresses, eating breakfast in the kitchen.

Lady Maud looked up from her toast and exclaimed, “Mr Tollman! Do excuse our attire but Mr Beech insisted we spend the night in the basement. I’m glad you managed to find us.”

“I just followed the sound of voices, Your Ladyship,” he said bemused, as Mrs Beddowes pressed a cup of tea into his hand. “Is everyone alright?” he enquired, “only it was a rum do in London last night.”

“It was indeed, Mr Tollman, a rum do,” Lady Maud agreed soberly.

Victoria explained the sequence of events—Caroline’s phone call, Beech’s mission over to the Murcheson house to tell Billy that Hoxton had been bombed and Beech’s return with Esme.

“Did Billy find his family?” Tollman asked anxiously.

“We don’t know, as yet,” Victoria answered, “but I’m hoping that Peter will ring us as soon as he knows anything.”

Right on cue, the telephone in the hallway began to ring and Tollman went up the back stairs to answer it.

“Tollman?” Beech said.

“Yes, sir, I’ve just arrived. What’s the news?”

“All good, thankfully. Billy’s mother and aunt are alive and well and billeted at the Murcheson house …”

“Are they, sir?!” Tollman was startled at the development.

“Yes, I thought it killed two birds with one stone, so to speak. They have a place to stay and in return they undertake to keep everything in good order. Better than having the place empty.”

“Yes, sir. A good idea.”

“So, Tollman … Rigsby is getting some much-needed rest, I am at the Yard dealing with the reports from last night and I suggest that we all convene at lunchtime. I don’t know what time Doctor Allardyce will be back, as she was hard at work last night dealing with the consequences of the bombing. So you will have to hold the fort, as it were.”

“No problem, sir. I suspect it will be quiet, as I shall suggest that all the ladies here go and have a nap.”

“Good man. I shall see you at lunchtime.” The receiver went dead and Tollman replaced it on the cradle. He smiled to himself as he went back down to the kitchen to impart the good news.

If I can get them all to have a nap, he thought, then I can have a read of the paper and maybe forty winks myself.

After all, he’d been up half the night with three hysterical daughters thinking they were all going to be bombed into oblivion. He deserved to put his feet up.