CHAPTER 14

Scotland Yard was on high alert when an exhausted Beech arrived. Not only were there men to be dispatched to continue with the clear-up in the East End but reports were coming in from the beat bobbies that hordes of “day-trippers” were turning up to see the damage and, in a distasteful manner, they were picking over the ruins for “souvenirs.” Then, there came an alert that there were people gathering in outraged protest outside Buckingham Palace, somehow feeling that the King could do something about the Kaiser’s war crimes, and, finally—worst of all—crowds were attacking any premises with German-sounding names, smashing windows, and threatening grievous bodily harm. London’s police force was stretched to the limit.

Beech joined the Commissioner, the other Divisional Detective Inspectors, and Chief Constables in a strategy meeting. He was so tired that he felt almost distant from the proceedings but, nonetheless, realized that he would have to push through his tiredness and contribute some sensible options. Eventually, it was decided that the King’s Household Police would have to deal with the crowd outside the Palace. Then it was suggested that they would have to request that the River Police, based at the Port of London, temporarily assist in dealing with the attacks on the shops and businesses in the East End of London. The rest would be dealt with by the foot patrols and some extra help.

“Perhaps we could bus in some of the women’s patrols to help with crowd control at the sites of the bombings?” Beech ventured and was rewarded with several disdainful looks.

The Commissioner gave a small smile and said, “Actually, Beech, that’s not a bad idea. The WPS scare the hell out of me, so perhaps they can do the same with these unsavory day-trippers!” The men around the table laughed and Beech felt a flush of pleasure. “When we’ve finished here, perhaps you could get one of your men to organize some charabancs so we can get Margaret Damer Dawson’s women over there?” Sir Edward added, looking at Beech, who nodded in agreement.

“I have a meeting this morning with the Home Secretary and various representatives of the War Office,” Sir Edward continued. “I don’t know if anything will come out of it. We failed to agree on sensible measures to be taken earlier this month when the Lusitania was sunk and we had to deal with the riots afterward. I think that this time, however, we shall have to insist on a full blackout of London.” There was a general murmur of despair around the table. “I know, I know,” Sir Edward continued, “it only makes our job of policing the capital harder but we cannot give the Zeppelins targets to aim at, can we, gentlemen?” Everyone reluctantly agreed. “However, we may still encounter resistance from those Members of Parliament who have vested interests in the entertainment establishments of the West End. Who knows? But they surely cannot defend their interests in the light of last night’s tragedy. What is also needed,” he continued, “is a more stringent defense system around London. We all know that. The Admiralty are just not producing the goods. Their warning system to us last night was both inadequate and late. We could have done with a lot more notice of the approaching Zeppelin and then we could have, possibly, evacuated people. I’m afraid that this is just the start of these raids and Military Intelligence informs me that the Kaiser has issued orders that his people may not bomb Central and West London, for fear of killing his relatives. So it looks as though the East End may be the target again. They are trying to put the docks along the river out of action and demoralize the population at the same time. The difficulty, as we all know, is that we simply do not have enough men to deal with this added problem. The War Office may have to look at volunteer patrols and that, I’m afraid gentlemen, brings us back to the women again.”

There was a collective murmur of dissatisfaction and one or two of the Chief Constables expressed their concern that their men did not want to work alongside the women’s groups.

“These are difficult times, gentlemen,” said Sir Edward with no small amount of impatience. “You must counsel your men to put aside their prejudices. I am not suggesting that these women become fully fledged police officers—far from it—but we must use every resource we have available for these non-criminal activities. I can’t have us using trained police officers for crowd control, rescue operations, and guarding foreign businesses. If we are facing a complete blackout of night-time London, the criminal population are going to see it as an opportunity to commit crimes with impunity. We have to concentrate all our efforts in that direction. For example,” he added, “if—and I stress—if we can get the Admiralty to give us better warning of Zeppelins crossing the coastline at any point, we can use the women’s patrols to rouse people from their beds and get them down into the Underground train stations. That, at least, might cut down on the level of casualties. We must speak to the Transport Division about implementing an orderly and safe system of accepting an influx of people into the stations after dark. It will require them to undertake all kinds of supervisory measures, which they won’t like, I’m sure, but nevertheless it must be done.”

The meeting dragged on for another hour, during which they pored over maps of gas supplies and electricity conduits and generally talked about defense measures. There was a discussion about providing police protection at the hospitals, which was dismissed due to the sheer number of hospitals that had sprung up in the capital over the last year, while the number of available police officers had dwindled.

“I am told by the War Office,” Sir Edward relayed to the assembly, “that, despite the number of large houses in London that have been given over to be temporary army hospitals, the hospital system is at breaking point. There are currently fifteen thousand wounded men being held in France because we have no beds for them in London. The Germans’ use of poison gas at Ypres last month has created an unprecedented number of wounded. I hope that the Home Secretary will decide to relocate many of these hospitals out into the countryside as we cannot be responsible for the mass evacuation of patients into underground locations in the event of more Zeppelin raids. We simply don’t have the manpower to cope.”

The meeting eventually broke up in an atmosphere of despondency. Never had London’s police force been so hard-pressed and yet the public continued to urge young men to enlist and fight in France. None of the senior police officers present could see how the situation could be improved. One by one the men drifted out, back to their units, but Sir Edward signaled silently to Beech to remain. When just the two of them were left, the Commissioner quietly asked Beech how the Murcheson case was progressing.

Beech shook his head. “Slowly, sir, I’m afraid. We have circulated photographs of the missing butler and the scullery maid among the regular force and the women’s patrols. Nothing as yet but we are hopeful.”

“Mm. And how is your new team shaping up?”

Beech brightened. “Better than expected, sir. We have also enlisted the help of a female pharmacist who has been jolly helpful in the analysis of various substances.”

Sir Edward smiled. “So, your females all have special talents, then?”

Beech laughed. “Yes sir! A doctor, a lawyer and, now, a pharmacist. Oh and I think I may have acquired two redoubtable East End women as general factotums—you know, nurses, caretakers, and bodyguards.”

“Bodyguards! Good Lord! Are they that fearsome, then?”

“Well, one, apparently, has a pretty good right hook.”

Sir Edward laughed and patted Beech on the back. “Well done, man,” he said jovially. “I can see that you are making good use of what meager resources are to hand. Keep me posted.”

“Will do, sir.”

Sir Edward then left for his undoubtedly grueling meeting with the government bodies that would decide the fate of London in the foreseeable future.

*   *   *

Billy had gone off to Mayfair and Sissy and Elsie were exploring the Murcheson house. Elsie had decided that they should take their boots off in case they made any marks on the floors.

“We don’t want to give ourselves any more work than is necessary, do we?” commented Elsie, as Sissy begrudgingly took off her boots and left them in the kitchen.

They climbed up to the top of the house, Timmy scampering behind them, and began to investigate. Timmy took a fancy to a servant’s bed in the attic, and no amount of cajoling would make him relinquish his snug place on the blanket.

“Oh, leave him,” said Sissy, in the end. “He’ll come down again when he’s hungry.” So they left him, curled up in a ball and faintly snoring.

Each room was inspected for dust and pronounced in need of a good “going over.” Lady Harriet’s room was locked, of course, as Beech had requested.

“The murder room,” said Sissy, when she realized the door wouldn’t open and Elsie remarked that she wouldn’t want to go in there anyway.

“I reckon they must have some dust sheets somewhere,” Sissy observed, as they examined more bedrooms “We should cover some of the big pieces of furniture up. Save it getting dusty while it’s not being used.”

They pronounced the first-floor dining room as “beautiful” but didn’t care much for the wallpaper. Elsie thought it looked too cheap for a Lord’s house and Sissy agreed. They were just about to go into the drawing room and give that the benefit of their discriminating taste when Sissy grabbed Elsie’s arm and mouthed, “I heard a door close.” They stood like statues and strained to listen. They had left the door between the main house and the basement open and they clearly heard another door open and close again.

“Follow me,” Sissy whispered, as she tiptoed in her stockinged feet down the grand staircase toward the open basement door, followed by an anxious and reluctant Elsie. They heard a man’s voice, gruff and common. It appeared he was talking to someone. Elsie tugged at Sissy’s sleeve and mouthed, “Telephone,” and Sissy nodded. They edged closer toward the open door and Sissy soundlessly extricated a brass-handled walking stick from the stand in the hall and then brandished it like a club, ready to attack should the unknown man come up the stairs.

They listened, barely breathing, and they heard the man say, “I need the money tonight, I’m going away,” then there was a pause and he said menacingly, “You’d better, or I’ll have to tell the police everything.” Sissy and Elsie looked at each other in alarm. “Dodds,” Sissy mouthed and Elsie nodded. Then the man said, “Eight o’clock at the Queen’s Head. Don’t be late or it’ll be the worse for you.”

The women heard drawers opening and closing, the clatter of items being knocked to the floor and footsteps back and forth as the man appeared to be searching for something. They heard the scraping of a chair and grunting as he seemed to be making an effort to move or retrieve objects. Then he exclaimed “Bloody woman!” and something was thrown, which smashed into pieces. Sissy tightened her grip on the walking stick and poised herself for action but then they heard the basement door slam. Quick as a flash, Sissy grabbed Elsie and they darted over to the front window, dropped down and peered over the sill. They both saw an angry man ascending the basement steps carrying a large carpet bag and he walked swiftly past the front of the house and down the road. The women turned round and sank to the floor, exhaling in relief.

“I thought we was gonners there, Sissy,” said Elsie, trembling from the ordeal.

“Nah,” replied her sister, scornfully, “I would have laid him out with this.” She waved the walking stick feebly in the air and they both giggled.

At that point, a curious Timmy appeared at the top of the stairs and cocked his head to one side.

“Oh, now you decide to make an appearance!” Elsie exclaimed sarcastically. “Can’t rely on you to defend us, can we?”

Timmy barked half-heartedly and they giggled again.

“’Old up!” said Sissy suddenly, “we’d better ring Billy and tell him what’s gone on. What did he say that number was again?”

“Mayfair one hundred,” Elsie replied as they heaved themselves up and went downstairs to survey the damage.

The kitchen looked as though it had been torn apart and Dodds’ room had been stripped of items that were previously on shelves. The small wardrobe in the corner had been left open and was bare.

“He’s been and got his stuff … looks like he’s going on the run,” Sissy observed. “He won’t be back—but put the bolt on the door anyway—and I’ll phone Billy. Don’t touch nothing!” she warned. “Billy’s boss will want to have a look at everything.”

Elsie looked at her, frustrated. “How can I put the bolt across if I can’t touch nothing?”

“I didn’t mean don’t touch the bolt, flannel-head!” was Sissy scornful response, as she made for the telephone.

A disgruntled Elsie shot the bolt and glared at her sister’s retreating back. “Well, people should say what they mean!” she said loudly.

*   *   *

Beech had just arrived at the Mayfair house when Sissy rang. Then he was just about to organize Billy’s return to the house, when Caroline arrived, fresh from the hospital. No sooner had she dropped her bag on the hall table when the telephone rang again and Mrs Beddowes announced that Polly had been sighted at an address in Pimlico.

The team were galvanized into action.

Beech issued orders. “Billy, take Lady Harriet’s parlormaid with you. If Dodds has broken items in the kitchen or taken things, Esme might be able to tell you what is missing. Make sure you take detailed notes!”

Billy nodded and sped down to the kitchen to grab Esme.

Tollman, meanwhile, was looking at the address Mrs Beddowes had written down on a piece of paper. “I know this place,” he volunteered. “It’s a brothel run by a woman called Maisie Perkins.”

Beech was momentarily halted by this piece of information. “Let’s hope we are not too late for Polly’s sake,” he commented grimly. “Who phoned it in?”

“One of the WSPP volunteers. It says here she saw Polly’s face at the downstairs window.”

Beech turned to Caroline. “Caro, I know you must be dead on your feet, but could you go with Tollman on this one? The girl may need medical attention and, in any event, she may prefer to speak to a woman, rather than a man.”

Caroline nodded. “Not a problem, Peter. I’m perfectly fine. I’m used to doing all-nighters. I find I usually don’t feel tired until about four in the afternoon.”

Beech nodded gratefully. He turned to Victoria. “I think it might be time for us to pay a visit to Lady Harriet’s solicitor, if you don’t mind?”

Victoria beamed. “Thank goodness! I thought you were going to leave me out of the team this morning!”

“As if I would,” murmured Beech, as she sped past him to fetch her coat.

“By the way,” announced Caroline loudly, to everyone, “Lady Harriet’s temperature went down overnight and she was awake for a whole hour and able to eat some solid food.”

A small cheer rippled around the hallway as they all digested this piece of news.

“Well, that’s a result!” said Billy, as he put his helmet on and was joined by Esme.

“It certainly is, Billy,” said Caroline cheerfully, “I don’t like losing patients!”

Everyone went their separate ways, buoyed by the knowledge that, at last, they seemed to be making some progress with the case. Dodds had surfaced, Polly had been sighted and Lady Harriet was pulling through.

*   *   *

Billy surveyed the mess in the kitchen and then carefully picked his way through the broken crockery to look at the butler’s room off to the side. He took his notebook out.

“Well, he’s definitely scarpered,” he observed. “Lucky you weren’t in the kitchen when he arrived.” Both women nodded their agreement.

“He obviously had a key,” said Sissy, “’cos that door was locked from the inside after you left and the key was up on the wall there.” She pointed to the key hanging on the hook nearby.

“Well, he would have,” piped up Esme. “Thank God I wasn’t here on my own! I should have fainted dead away, I should!”

“Just to make sure,” said Billy, retrieving a picture of Dodds from his pocket. “Is this the man you saw?”

Sissy and Elsie both murmured assent.

“Just look at him!” Sissy commented. “Don’t he look the master criminal?”

Billy grinned. “Well, it’s an offenders’ photograph. Taken when he was charged with a crime. These pictures make everyone look evil.”

“Can I put the kettle on, Billy?” asked Elsie, clutching Timmy in her arms for fear of him cutting his paws on the broken china on the floor. “Only I feel in need of a brew, my nerves are that frayed.”

“Course you can, Ma,” said Billy. He motioned to the parlormaid. “Now, Esme, look at the floor and tell me what Dodds has smashed and why.”

Esme looked carefully at the various pieces of china and pottery on the floor, then she said triumphantly, “They’re all Cook’s tradesman pots! He must have been after the money that she puts aside to pay the butcher, the fishmonger, and so on. She keeps it all in separate pots and bowls up on the shelf there. Only, he must have been disappointed,” she added, “’cos she took all the money with her. Said Lady Harriet could at least pay for her and Annie’s train fares. I reckon there was probably ten pounds all told!”

“No wonder that man was so angry!” observed Sissy. “He shouted ‘bloody woman!” afore he smashed things.”

“Right,” said Billy, writing in his book, “Esme, be a good girl and sweep this lot up, then we’ll sit down and have a cup of tea, and you two can tell me, in detail, what you saw and heard.”

*   *   *

In the cab, on the way to Pimlico, Tollman filled Caroline in on his knowledge of the premises they were about to visit.

“It’s what I would call a medium-grade establishment, Doctor,” he said. “Pimlico houses are large and not cheap to rent. Maisie Perkins runs a knocking shop that’s a cut above the low-grade places you usually find around the main railway stations. But, I suspect, that that is because it is within brisk walking distance of the Houses of Parliament, if you get my drift, Doctor,” and he winked, knowingly.

Caroline nodded but did not smile. “I do indeed, Mr Tollman,” she replied. “Only last week I had to tell a refined lady—wife of a Member of Parliament—that she had contracted a venereal disease from her husband. He probably caught it from an establishment like the one we are about to visit.”

“Actually, Doctor,” Tollman responded thoughtfully, “I’m not sure that he did. Maisie Perkins runs a clean shop. All clients have to be clean, suited, and booted, if you get my drift and, I believe, she has a doctor on call for all her girls.”

“Really?” Caroline’s interest was piqued. “I shall take notes. Perhaps I can teach some of the poorer prostitutes some of her practices. We spend too much time at the Women’s Hospital and the London treating syphilis and repairing botched abortions.”

Tollman shook his head in wonder. What a strange and sordid profession for an upper-class woman to be engaged in! He looked at Caroline with renewed respect.

Madame Perkins, for that is what she insisted on being called, was strangely welcoming when Tollman rang the front doorbell.

“I suppose you’ve come looking for that girl!” she announced, as soon as she opened the door and Tollman flashed his warrant card. “Well, she’s gone! I told her to go and now I need protection from George Sumpter!”

She motioned Caroline and Tollman to follow her into the back parlor and bawled down to the kitchen “Evelyne! Bring me a pot of tea and three cups, at once!”

Once inside the parlor, all three of them sat on expensively upholstered chairs and Madame began her tale. As she spoke, an astonished Caroline realized that this plump, middle-aged woman before them was middle class, with good taste in décor and furniture, judging by the surroundings, and behaved, for all the world, as though she was running a hat shop not a brothel.

“George Sumpter brought that young girl, Polly, here the night before last. Now you understand, Detective Sergeant, that I don’t usually have many dealings with a man like George Sumpter, but he has brought me young ladies in the past who wished to work in the … er … profession.”

“I understand,” said Tollman, making notes.

The tea arrived, delivered by a respectable-looking maid, and there was a pause while Madame poured everyone a cup of tea and observed the niceties of sugar and milk.

Cup in hand and fortified by a mouthful of tea, Madame resumed. “I say that, in the past, George Sumpter had brought girls to me. However, I do not mean to imply that I employed them. Oh no! Hardly any of them were suitable for my establishment, which, as you know, Detective Sergeant, prides itself on its discerning taste, refined young ladies and utter discretion. I think, that out of fifteen girls he may have brought to my door, only two were suitable.”

“And Sumpter would get a fee from you, for every girl he supplied?” asked Tollman.

“Yes,” Madame continued, “after one month had passed and the girl had proved satisfactory. You must understand—” her voice had a note of urgency and she leaned forward to emphasize her point “—I am not a white slaver! I do not take girls into my establishment that do not wish to be here. It is all voluntary. No one is kept here against their will and they are all properly instructed before they start work. No one is under any illusion about the nature of the work. George Sumpter, I have heard, runs a small business using amateurs. Overpainted doxies who are not properly trained.”

“But what about, Polly?” Caroline was becoming impatient.

Madame shot her a troubled glance. “Well, this is my point, dear. He turned up with this young girl—virtually a child, for goodness sake! I must stress that all my ladies are over the age of twenty-one. Any gentleman looking for unsavory services, involving underage girls, must go elsewhere. I will not tolerate it!”

“Polly?” Tollman reminded her gently, which brought Madame back from her flurry of indignation.

“Yes, well, the poor child was obviously distressed and Sumpter was up to no good. He did not offer her to me as an employee—which I would have refused anyway—but said that she needed to be hidden here for a while and then he threatened me. He said that if I told anyone about the girl, he would ‘do for me,’ whatever that means. I have no doubt that it meant some sort of violence.”

“What did Polly say?” asked Caroline, aching for Madame to get to the point.

“She said that something bad had happened where she worked but she wouldn’t enlarge on that. She was upset about Sumpter—kept calling him Mr Dodds—and she said that he had promised to take her home and that he had said that everything was alright now. But it obviously wasn’t.” Madame’s carefully controlled façade was beginning to crumble. “I asked her if she had any family and she said no, she was an orphan from Barnardo’s, so I suggested that she went back there, for protection. I gave her some money for the railway train and she left. I was just about to contact Scotland Yard, in the vain hope that I might be offered some protection, when you arrived, Detective Sergeant.” Madame looked flustered again and addressed Caroline. “I’m sorry, Miss, but I’m not quite sure who you are.”

“I’m a doctor,” Caroline answered simply. “The police thought that Polly might be in need of medical attention and they asked me to attend.”

“Ah, I see. Well, apart from being upset, she seemed in perfect health to me,” Madame volunteered. “If there had been any problem, I would have called my own doctor in to examine her.”

“And who is your doctor, Madame?” Caroline enquired.

Madame looked affronted. “Discretion is my byword, Miss …”

“Doctor Allardyce,” Caroline said firmly. “And I can assure you that neither DS Tollman nor I will divulge the name of your doctor to anyone else.”

Madame shook her head. “My doctor is of the top rank. From Harley Street. He has many titled patients. If it were known that he also administered to my girls—if even a whisper were to get out—it would ruin his business! You must understand.”

Caroline reluctantly agreed with Madame but, nonetheless, she remained curious as to the identity of this egalitarian doctor.

“So, am I to get some protection, Detective Sergeant?” Madame persisted.

“Yes, Madame,” Tollman nodded. “Do you have a telephone here?”

“Of course.”

“Then if I might use it to organize a protective detail?”

“You must understand, Detective Sergeant—” Madame was most insistent “—I cannot have a uniformed policeman outside my front door. In fact I cannot have a uniformed policeman in the house. It must be discreet. What would my clients think?”

Tollman sighed. “I shall organize some plain-clothed muscle, Madame, just until we have George Sumpter under arrest. Now, the telephone?”

“Ah, yes. In the hallway, there is a booth set in an alcove.”

Tollman left to make a call, leaving Caroline and Madame in uneasy silence.

“Madame,” Caroline said, deciding to be as respectful as possible, “when I was enquiring about your doctor earlier, I was merely concerned that you and your ladies were getting the best possible attention and help with disease prevention.”

Madame relaxed a little and smiled. “You need not worry, Doctor Allardyce,” she replied, her tone reassuring, “my ladies are regularly inspected, our clients must disinfect themselves before partaking and they must always wear protection. It is the amateur trollops on the streets—brought here by the fascination of soldiers in uniform—these are the ones who spread disease.”

“Do you see the clients yourself ?”

Madame raised her eyebrows. “Do you mean …?”

“Oh, no, no!” Caroline apologized hastily. “I meant, do you physically see them, when they arrive? Before they avail themselves of the services?”

“Oh yes!” replied Madame. “I receive all the clients in the front parlor and I make small talk with them, offer them stimulants, and so on, while they are waiting for the girl of their choice.”

“I see. So has your doctor taught you and your ladies to be aware of signs on the face or lips that could be an indication of venereal disease?” Caroline found it amusing that Madame visibly bristled at the word “venereal.”

I do believe, Caroline thought to herself, that she has convinced herself she is running a bridge club or some other refined gathering!

“Of course!” was Madame’s curt reply. “Really, Doctor, I have been running this business for nearly twenty-five years and I have never lost a girl to any kind of disease.”

Caroline was nothing if not dogged in her pursuit of information. “And may I ask what stimulants you offer your clients?”

“Oh, some powders that my doctor provides and, of course, we have all the spirits—whisky, brandy, port, and we have fine cigars—whatever a gentleman may fancy. Although these may become more difficult to obtain if this wretched war continues.”

“May I see?”

Madame smiled. “Of course. Follow me.” She led the way into a large room at the front of the house, which, to Caroline, was much more of her idea of how a brothel should be decorated. There were red plush sofas, walnut tables littered with postcards of nude and semi-nude women, there was erotic art on the wall and, along one side of the room was a sideboard displaying several full decanters of spirits, a large cigar box, bowls of prophylactics, and some silver bowls containing the exact same packets of heroin that had been in the possession of Lord Murcheson. Caroline picked one up. The fold of the paper was the same.

She waved one in the air as she enquired, “And you said that your doctor provides these packets of stimulants?”

Madame nodded. “We get a fresh supply every month. In fact, George Sumpter delivers them.”

“Oh?” Caroline was surprised. “You didn’t mention that before!”

“Didn’t I?” Madame looked flustered again. “Well, I suppose it didn’t seem to be very important in the light of this other matter with the girl.”

Tollman stuck his head around the door and was momentarily lost for words at the sight of the décor.

“Er … Madame,” he said, “I have arranged for one of our finest policemen, in plain clothes, to take up residence here until we apprehend Sumpter. He will be here within the hour. So I suggest you lock your doors and sit tight until he arrives.”

“Of course, Detective Sergeant. We have no clients until seven o’clock this evening anyway.” Madame seemed satisfied and led the way to the front door.

Outside in the street, Tollman and Caroline looked at each and laughed.

“Well, Mr Tollman, that was the greatest exercise in self-delusion I’ve ever witnessed,” said Caroline, shaking her head in disbelief. “I do believe the woman thinks she’s running some sort of finishing school!”

“You couldn’t make it up, could you, Doctor?” agreed Tollman.

*   *   *

Beech and Victoria decided to take the omnibus to Fleet Street. It was a crisp May afternoon that seemed to lift people’s spirits, despite the horrors of the night before. The sun was shining weakly on London, as if to soothe its soul. The crowds had obviously decided to cheer themselves up and make the most of the daytime safety. The flower sellers, who usually struggled to sell their wares all along the Strand, had almost empty baskets. Men were sporting flowers in their lapels and there seemed to be a mood of defiant jollity. The newspaper sellers had replaced their early morning posters pronouncing the horror of the Zeppelin attack with messages of bravado. “The King says we shall prevail!” read one. “Killer Kaiser will be shot!” read another.

Victoria wondered how brave Londoners would be if the Zeppelin attacks became a regular occurrence.

It’s hard to maintain an air of defiance in the face of continuous terror, she thought but then she remembered her months at the army hospital in Berkshire, where the men, some terribly wounded and maimed for life, seemed to summon resources of cheerfulness and courage despite everything. Part of the British character, I suppose, she reasoned. Just like the women in her family. Always marrying soldiers, always being widowed, but always resourceful.

“Penny for them?” said Beech suddenly, making her start.

“Sorry?”

“Penny for your thoughts,” repeated Beech. “You seemed miles away.”

“Oh.” She smiled in embarrassment. “Sorry. I was just thinking how London seems to have sprung back to its old self—despite last night’s horrors.”

“Yes,” said Beech, but he was thinking about the meeting at the Yard and Sir Edward’s grim prediction of how London’s authorities would cope in the event of more Zeppelin attacks. “We’re here,” he said, as the omnibus drew up outside the Law Courts, and they scrabbled quickly to get off.

The walk through Lincoln’s Inn Fields was pleasant. Some ladies were playing tennis. Soldiers, presumably on leave, were laying on the grass with their jackets undone. Birds chattered and hopped about in the trees. An elderly man was walking two dogs. All seemed tranquil and yet, Beech reasoned, barely three miles away, people’s homes had been reduced to rubble.

As Victoria and Beech approached number twenty-seven, Victoria pointed out that Sir Arnold was approaching his chambers from the opposite direction. They met outside the front door. Beech flashed his warrant card and a slightly irritated Sir Arnold bade them enter. He knew what they were here for and he was not of a mind to play ball—a frame of mind he made perfectly clear as soon as they sat down in his rooms.

“I am quite sure that you are here to ask me about the contents of Lady Harriet’s will,” Sir Arnold said briskly, “but I am equally sure that I will not breach a client’s expectation of confidentiality.”

Beech sighed but summoned a small, determined smile.

“Sir Arnold,” he began, “I know that many solicitors have a poor opinion of the police force …”

Sir Arnold drew his brows together as if to prepare himself for a lecture.

“… but,” Beech continued, “in this case, we are valiantly trying to prove your client’s innocence. I, myself, was the first person to interview her after the murder occurred and I can testify that she was in tremendous pain and unable to move. Doctor Allardyce, whom I believe you met in the Women’s Hospital, attended Lady Harriet in her home, where she began to hemorrhage internally and it was only the presence of Doctor Allardyce that saved her life. She also is willing to testify that Lady Harriet would have been unable to physically commit the murder of her husband. Mrs Ellingham here—” Victoria flashed Sir Arnold a brief smile “—took down Lady Harriet’s confession.” Beech noticed the disapproving look that crossed Sir Arnold’s face and he hastily added, “at Lady Harriet’s insistence, I may add, as she thought she was about to die, and she is also of the opinion that Lady Harriet’s confession is an attempt to protect someone. So,” Beech concluded, “all in all, we will do our utmost to prevent your client from ever being accused of a murder that she did not commit but we need to see the will and ascertain whether she may have said anything that may give us a clue and enable us to put the real perpetrator behind bars.”

Beech sat back and prayed that Sir Arnold would see sense. There was a moment of silence, then Sir Arnold stirred. He rose and opened a wooden cabinet, retrieved some documents and sat down again, placing the documents on the desk. He then looked at Victoria and said pointedly, “I wonder if I might have your opinion on a painting in my clerk’s office, Mrs Ellingham? A lady of your refinement might be able to pronounce upon its origins, don’t you think?”

Victoria looked confused, but then Beech said firmly, “I think you should have a look, Mrs Ellingham. I believe you may be able to help Sir Arnold.”

She realized that she was being asked to leave the room with Sir Arnold on a pretext, so that Beech could look at the documents on the desk.

“Of course, Sir Arnold,” she said affably, “it would be a pleasure.” So the elderly solicitor, with a nod of understanding to Beech, led the way into the next room, closing the door firmly behind them, leaving Beech to glean what information he could from the last Will and Testament of Lady Harriet Murcheson.