CHAPTER 16

It was a glum gathering at breakfast the next morning. Billy, finding Beech fast asleep when he had returned from the West End, had decided not to wake him, but had then been rewarded by the full force of Beech’s irritation in the morning. Billy accepted the dressing-down meekly, suspecting that Beech was more annoyed with himself for falling deeply asleep, fully clothed, in a chair, than he was with Billy for not waking him up with the news about Dodds.

Once the news had been relayed to everyone at the breakfast table, a general air of frustration prevailed.

“We have to go and see this doctor, Caroline,” said Beech. “Are you free this morning?”

Caroline said that she was and would gladly accompany Beech on the visit. “I should like to see for myself what kind of doctor turns a young man back from the war into a raging drug addict,” she added sourly.

Beech shot her an anxious look but decided he would wait until they were en route to Harley Street before he gave her a lecture about how she must conduct herself in the interview.

Tollman arrived, with his usual morning newspaper tucked under his arm, and he smiled briefly at Victoria, as she poured him a cup of tea.

“So, Tollman,” said Beech, buttering another slice of toast, “last night was somewhat of a disaster?”

Tollman, sensing criticism in Beech’s voice, raised an eyebrow at Billy, who just shrugged.

“The place was packed, sir.” Tollman explained. “Dodds came out from the back room, signaled to someone in the crowd and then disappeared again. Billy broke the back-room door down, while I tried to push through the crowds to the front door. By the time Billy got to Dodds, he’d been knifed. We questioned the customers—most of whom were drunk—and questioned the barman at length. Dodds had been paying him to allow an amateur prostitution racket to be run in the pub but he didn’t know who Dodds was meeting. He said that Dodds announced that someone was bringing him some money so that he could leave the country. I handed Dodds’ body over to St James’ station. They said they would process the evidence, such as it was, and let us know if they found anything further.”

Beech grunted. “So who do we think killed him? Polly?”

Tollman sighed with dissatisfaction at this theory. “I saw no one in that pub that wasn’t dressed up to the nines, looking like a Drury Lane Fairy,” he said. “Now I grant you, sir, young Polly could have got herself tarted up specifically to meet him and kill him but we have to remember that whoever Dodds was meeting was going to bring him some money. Polly had no money except what Maisie Perkins gave her for her train fare. If Dodds was expecting to leave the country, then we must assume he was expecting a large amount of money.”

“Could it have been Maisie Perkins?” ventured Caroline. “I mean she could just have been telling us a complete pack of lies and, all along, she was Dodds’ accomplice and intended to kill him rather than give him money.”

Tollman screwed his face into an expression of indecision. Caroline’s theory wasn’t going to satisfy him either. “I’ve known Maisie Perkins for a great number of years—not personally, you understand—but she has cropped up in a lot of cases that have involved top-ranking Society gentlemen. She’s convinced herself that she is providing a genteel public service and recoils in horror from anything to do with violence and I just can’t persuade myself that she would perform this act. Besides, we didn’t see her at the pub—although I admit she could have been in disguise—but let’s not forget that Madame Perkins is not young and certainly not agile. Whoever legged it round the back of that pub, knifed Dodds, and then disappeared, was someone strong and fit.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Beech. “And you didn’t see anyone running away at all?” he asked Billy.

“No, sir,” said Billy firmly. “Mind you, it was dark in that alley. But I didn’t hear any footsteps either.”

“I think you should go back and have a look in daylight, Tollman,” Beech’s tone implied that he meant immediately and Tollman took a last mouthful of his tea, before saying, “Yes, sir. Come on Billy. Get your coat, lad.”

“Perhaps I could go too?” asked Victoria, “I’m quite good at spotting things?”

Everyone looked at Beech for permission and smiled when he nodded.

“I’ll just get my coat and hat, and I’ll be right with you, Mr Tollman,” said Victoria, as she sped out and up the stairs.

Once the trio had departed, Beech decided that probably now would be a good time to tell Caroline how to behave when they went to see the doctor. He decided to have one more slice of bacon first, before he plunged into, what would undoubtedly become, a lively argument.

*   *   *

“I’m not sure that this was a good idea, Mrs E,” said Tollman with distaste, as he guided Victoria past the pools of vomit in the side alley of the pub.

“Oh really, Mr Tollman,” she tried to be light-hearted and positive, “I have seen far worse when I was working in a hospital!” Privately, though, she found the alleyway disgusting. It smelt like a urinal, or worse, and began to make her feel a little queasy. Turning into the back alley, which could be accessed through a tall metal gate, provided a little respite. It seemed as though not many of the customers had progressed beyond the gate and the cobbles were relatively clear of human detritus.

“Billy,” ordered Tollman, “knock up the landlord and ask him if he’s washed anything down in the alley since last night.”

Billy duly hammered on the door, for some time, until the face of the man appeared at the door, his cheekbone hugely swollen and various shades of red, blue, and purple.

“You again!” he said, with some difficulty, given the swelling of his cheek and lip. “What do you want now?” He was clearly not happy to be roused from his bed.

“Have you cleaned out the back here since last night?”

The reply was scornful. “Do I look as though I felt like cleaning the back alley last night?!” And he slammed the door.

“He says no,” said Billy, grinning.

“Was that your handiwork, Constable Rigsby?” asked Victoria, not quite sure whether to approve or disapprove.

“It was self-defense, Miss. Bloke came at me with a cosh. Obstructed me in the course of my duties.” Then he winked.

Victoria allowed herself a small smile but, deep down, felt she should be disapproving.

“So,” said Tollman in a business-like manner, “Dodds’ body was lying here,” and he indicated the area, “facing this way,” and he pointed back toward the gate.

“Obviously, he was expecting someone to come down the side alley to meet him,” observed Victoria. “They stabbed him and he fell backward, still facing in the direction he was expecting his visitor to come from. I take it he was stabbed in the front, not the back of the chest? Only you didn’t say,” she added by way of clarification.

“Yes, Mrs E,” Tollman confirmed, “stabbed, I imagine, right through the heart, I’d guess, as it seemed that he must have died almost instantly.”

“And you passed no one in the side alley as you came around the back?”

“No.”

“Then,” said Victoria, turning away from Tollman, “the perpetrator must have made his escape this way—” she pointed down the alley “—and that is where we should look for clues.”

They instinctively formed a line across the alley—Victoria on the left, Billy in the middle and Tollman on the right—and began to slowly walk the escape route, inch by inch. The alley ran between two streets, so there were back doors on either side and, occasionally, Tollman or Victoria would stop and examine the contents of those doorways very closely.

“Look at this,” said Victoria, stopping suddenly and she pointed to a small line of rubbish—pieces of paper and ends of cigarette roll-ups.

“What are we looking at, Miss?” asked Billy, bemused.

“That rubbish is in a perfect diagonal line from the corner. That means that the door was opened and it pushed that rubbish into a perfect line. It’s possible that the murderer escaped through this door.”

Tollman respected her view but introduced a note of caution. “Mm, but that door could have been opened at any time—either before or after the murder. But it’s worth investigating. Billy, go round the front and see what this building is.”

Billy nodded and set off back to the side alley. Victoria and Tollman continued their laborious search. They had progressed about ten feet when Billy opened the door behind them.

“Mr Tollman!” he announced, “I think you might find this place of interest!”

As Victoria and Tollman turned back, Billy looked alarmed. “Um … not sure it’s suitable for Mrs Ellingham to enter …”

Victoria looked puzzled as Billy whispered in Tollman’s ear and Tollman nodded. He turned to Victoria and said, as diplomatically as he could, “I’m sorry, Mrs E, but I think it would be best if you went and had a nice cup of tea somewhere and we will join you afterward.” Victoria opened her mouth to protest but Tollman shook his head, “Sorry, Mrs E, I won’t be budged on this one. There are some things I’m prepared to expose a lady to and some I’m not. So I will escort you round to the front and point you in the direction of Lyons’ Corner House, shall I?” Tollman firmly took Victoria’s arm and propelled her toward the side alley, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll meet you round the front, Billy!”

Once they had negotiated the unpleasant side alley and were on the main street, Victoria stopped dead in her tracks and said stubbornly, “I refuse to take another step until you tell me what it is that you are not prepared to ‘expose’ me to. Really, Mr Tollman, this high-handedness is quite unacceptable …”

“It’s a molly shop …” he said flatly, to interrupt her.

“A what?”

“Molly shop is a police term for a male brothel that caters to the tastes of certain men. Is that what you wanted to know? And,” added Tollman bluntly, “excluding you from this part of the investigation is not to spare your blushes, it is to spare ours. I am sure,” he continued in a softer tone, “that you consider yourself a woman of the world, Mrs E, but Billy and I don’t want to have to consider your feelings when we start interviewing these young men. It’s a brutal world they live in and they often don’t have any sense of refinement or common decency. So you will oblige us by going to Lyons’ Corner House and having a leisurely cup of tea, while we deal with this bit of unpleasantness.”

Victoria nodded her head, shamed into obedience by Tollman’s reasonable but firm protectiveness, and she stepped out toward Piccadilly Circus.

Tollman watched her walk slowly away and bowed his head in resignation before he stepped through the doorway in front of him.

As he entered, he noted that the hallway led straight through to the back door. To his left was a porter’s cubbyhole, with a counter that could be raised for entrance and exit. Behind the porter’s counter were pigeonholes for correspondence and a door, which was open, leading to a small parlor, where a small man was hunched in front of a fireplace.

The man glared at him as he flashed his warrant card.

Ahead of him, at the base of the stairs, Billy stood by a low wooden gate, looking upward.

As Tollman approached him, he followed Billy’s gaze and found himself staring at a sea of faces—some wearing make-up, some frightened, some defiant—all young men. Tollman estimated them to be between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one, no more, it was hard to tell under the rouge and lipstick.

“Make sure they don’t move,” Tollman said to Billy, “I want to have a word with matey who runs the place. Any patrons in?” he asked, as an afterthought.

“What! At this hour of the morning, darling!” exclaimed one of the older men on the stairs.

Tollman turned, grim-faced, to the crowd on the stairs. “When I want your opinion, son, I’ll ask for it. Meanwhile, I would keep my mouth shut, if I were you, until I ask you for information, and then you’d better be bloody sure that you give me the right information, or I’ll have you down the nick as fast as your stockinged legs will carry you. Do I make myself clear?”

There was a silence from the landing.

“While I am interviewing the porter,” Tollman continued, “I want every bit of powder and paint off your faces. I want to see who I’m talking to. Then I will decide how many criminal prosecutions we need to write up today.”

One of the young men started to cry and was comforted by an older one. Tollman’s heart sank. “I hate this bloody job sometimes,” he muttered to himself as he turned back to the front parlor.

“You heard the detective!” Billy barked up the stairs. “Go and get the muck off your faces!”

The short, fat man in the parlor looked sullenly at Tollman as he entered. “I don’t know anything, so don’t bother asking me,” he said belligerently.

Tollman was in no mood to be messed about. “PC Rigsby!” he shouted, and Billy appeared. “This man is obstructing justice. Would you care to point out to him the error of his ways?”

Billy gave a small mirthless smile and said, “Pleasure, Mr Tollman,” as he suddenly kicked the armchair backward so the man found himself flat on his back, legs in the air and Billy’s foot on his chest.

“I’m asthmatic!” the man yelled.

Billy cupped his ear in mock deafness. “Sorry, sir, you’ll have to speak up. I’m a little hard of hearing.” With that he put his full body weight on the man’s chest by hopping on his other foot. As the man screamed, Tollman nodded appreciatively. “Very creative, son. Now let’s see if he’s decided to be more amenable, shall we?”

Billy dragged the man upright by his collar and perched him on the front of the tipped-over chair.

“Alright! Alright!” he was coughing and spluttering. “I’ll tell you want you want to know. Get me some water!”

Tollman nodded to Billy, who went over to a small sink in the corner and drew some water from the tap into a nearby teacup with no handle. He grudgingly gave it to the man, who drank and coughed for a good two minutes before regaining some sort of composure.

“Ready?” asked Tollman, barely disguising his impatience.

The man nodded. “What d’you want to know?” he said hoarsely, sitting down in the armchair that Billy had now raised upright.

“Firstly, what’s your name and, secondly, are you the owner of this establishment?” asked Tollman, getting out his notebook and pencil.

The man looked at him with barely disguised contempt. “Do you think I would be living in two poxy rooms in this dump if I was the owner?”

Billy cuffed him round the ear and barked, “Oi! Show some respect to the detective, or I’ll have you flat on the floor under my boot again!”

The man glared at Billy and decided to co-operate more fully.

“The name’s Fred Miller and I’m just the porter,” he said sullenly. “I don’t know who owns the place. All I know is that some woman comes every two weeks and collects the rents.”

“Name of the woman?”

Miller shook his head. “She never gave one and I never asked.”

“What does she look like … this woman who collects the rents?”

Miller reflected for a moment. “Powdered and painted … but that don’t make her good-looking. Sort of medium height with fair hair. Hard face. If you’d have pointed her out to me in the street and told me she was a prossy, I’d have believed it.”

“And was this woman here last night?”

Miller shook his head. “She never normally comes at night but, if she was here, I wouldn’t have seen her.”

Tollman was momentarily puzzled. “Why wouldn’t you have seen her?”

Miller looked uneasy. “Because once it gets past seven o’clock in the evening, I shut that door and I don’t come out—no matter what goes on upstairs.” He lowered his voice and looked intently at Tollman. “There’s some very important men come to this house to … conduct their business, if you get my drift. I don’t want to see them and they don’t want to see me. What a person doesn’t know, or see, can’t be sworn in court. The woman told me that. She said I was to mind my own business and stay in my room, no matter what I hear going on upstairs. So, if anyone came here last night, I wouldn’t have seen them.”

Tollman nodded. “I understand. Does the woman get involved with the … er … tenants upstairs?”

“Nah. She’s like a ghost, she is. She comes early in the morning, about nine, when they’re all sleeping. No one ever sees her except me.”

Tollman filed this piece of information away and then said, “So now tell me what you heard last night.”

Miller sighed. “The usual. Men coming in and going up the stairs. Some screaming …”

“Screaming?” Tollman was taken aback by the casualness of the remark.

“Two types,” Miller continued unabashed. “On Tuesdays and Thursdays there is one of the young men upstairs who screams a bit. On Mondays and Wednesdays, there’s an older man’s voice, which sort of screams and moans.”

“God help us!” muttered Billy.

“And you do nothing about this?” asked Tollman with a strong tone of distaste.

Miller was defensive. “I told you—I don’t want to know what goes on in this house and who does it. Each to their own. It’s not my cup of tea but let ’em get on with it. It’s not my place to interfere. If they need a doctor, they’ve got one lined up.”

“Name of the doctor?”

“No idea. You’ll have to ask them.”

“Did you hear anything else last night?”

Miller looked reluctant but said, “I heard someone come in the back door, run the full length of the hallway and go out the front.”

“And you saw nothing?”

“I told you … I don’t open that door after seven. Not for anything.”

Tollman thought for a moment and then said, “Where’s your accounts book?”

Miller reluctantly got up off his chair and went to a drawer and withdrew a battered leather-bound book. “There’s nothing much in there,” he said as he handed it to Tollman. “Just the rents and the fortnightly totals for when the woman picks them up.”

“Mm.” Tollman flicked through the pages. “When is the woman due to collect again?

“Tomorrow.”

Tollman thought for a moment and then handed back the book. “Here’s the deal,” he explained firmly. “You will say nothing of this to the woman. When she appears you will not have a conversation with her about our visit …”

“I don’t anyway,” interrupted Miller.

“Don’t what?”

“Have a conversation with her. She comes in and says, ‘Got the rents?,’ I give her the money, she goes. That’s it. We don’t exchange pleasantries. She’s never shown any inclination ever since she employed me to be the porter here.”

“She employed you?”

“Some two years ago now. I answered an advertisement in the paper. I came here, she asked me a few questions and gave me the job. I was lucky to get it on account of me being inside for three years for grievous. The rooms came with it. I was told what went on here. Told to keep my mouth and the door shut at night and that was it. She picks the rent up, gives me my money and goes. She ain’t the owner though.”

“Who is then?” Tollman was intrigued.

Miller shrugged. “Dunno. Some bloke, I suppose. I once asked for money to get stair carpet put down to muffle the noise of the patrons going up and down all night. She said, ‘I’ll ask my boss,’ and that was it. Next time she came, she said, ‘He said yes,’ and gave me ten pounds to get it done. That’s the only conversation we’ve had in two years.”

“Right.” Tollman scribbled furiously. “So, I will repeat what I just said. You do not mention that we have been here. This is part of a serious murder investigation …”

“Murder?!” Miller was alarmed.

“Oh, didn’t I mention that?” Tollman feigned surprise. “Yes. Someone murdered a witness that we were looking for, right outside your back door. So, if you mention to this woman who collects your rents that we were here, and she turns out to be the murderer, I will have you up in court as an accessory. Understood?”

“Understood,” said Miller firmly. “But what about being had up for running a knocking shop? Am I facing that as well?”

Tollman looked at the man and said quietly, “Not necessarily. If you co-operate with us in this investigation, it will go well for you. If you do a runner, I will find you. So stay where you are … carry on with your job … and I will put in a good word for you when the time comes. Got that?”

Miller nodded.

“Good.” Tollman turned to Billy, “Now, PC Rigsby, I’m afraid we have the unpleasant task of interviewing the lads upstairs.”

*   *   *

Beech had an idea and he turned to Caroline with a triumphant look on his face.

“Caro … you are going to pretend to be my secretary!”

Caroline looked at him in astonishment. “I beg your pardon?!”

“Look,” he answered patiently, “we don’t want this doctor to know that you are as highly trained as he is. If you go into his office and start asking him medical questions and displaying your credentials, he might get all defensive or, at worst, refuse to say anything. If he thinks that we are both ignorant laymen … women … you know what I mean … he may try to bluff and we can catch him out.”

Caroline looked at Beech. “I can see the sense of that,” she admitted, “but, Peter, why on earth would you take a secretary with you to conduct an interview?”

Beech grinned. “Ah! I’ve thought of that. I want you to bind my right hand up like Rigsby’s. I’ll pretend that it’s one of my war wounds and that I can’t write, so I need someone to take notes—which you will do for me—but it will also allow you to write down any questions you feel I should ask … couching them in layman’s terms, of course. I will periodically ask you to give me the notes to check, so that I can read your prompts.”

“You have worked this out, haven’t you?” Caroline was impressed.

Beech smiled, her praise making him feel quite proud.

“I rather like the idea of dealing with this doctor by deception,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll go and get my bag and then I can tape up your hand. Perhaps you should limp a little as well?” she suggested as she left the room.

Caroline seemed to be gone for some time but, once she returned, she began to bandage his hand tightly, while chattering away about her planned role as his secretary.

“You should start off by asking him exactly what drugs he gave Lord Murcheson—although he probably won’t tell you. He’ll probably fall back on the old chestnut of patient confidentiality, which I personally think is ridiculous once a patient is dead.”

“But we know what drugs he gave Murcheson,” said Beech, puzzled by her statement. “We have them from the house.”

“We know what drugs he prescribed, Peter. The ones he put his practice labels on. We don’t know if he gave him other drugs—not obtained through a pharmacy.”

Beech looked at her askance. “Would a Harley Street doctor do that?”

Caroline snorted derisively. “You think that because a doctor has a fancy practice and rich patients he is above making some extra money on the side? You heard Arthur Tollman’s report about the aristocrats in the nightclub. They bring their own drugs—given to them by their doctors. I bet they’re not written down in the practice books, just like the illegal abortions performed in Harley Street.”

“Surely not? Eminent doctors? Why would they perform abortions?”

Caroline sighed, then smiled. “For a policeman, you are terribly naïve, Peter Beech,” she scolded him gently. “They do it because their patients—Lady so and so and the Duchess of wherever—ask them to get rid of an unwanted or inconvenient pregnancy. Or they ask them to get rid of their unmarried daughter’s proof of indiscretion. The trouble is that many of them might be top-notch physicians but they are not surgeons. I have patched up too many botched jobs among upper-class women to know only too well what goes on with so-called ‘eminent’ doctors.” She patted his bandaged hand. “All done. Try and move it.”

Beech found that the hand was completely rigid, although not uncomfortable. “Well done, old thing,” he said. “Now go and get your coat and hat and let’s be off.”

“Actually, I’ve borrowed a coat and hat from Esme. I didn’t want to be too expensively dressed. Not for a secretary. And my personal coat is from a private designer. Our man in Harley Street would spot its worth straight away. I also borrowed Mrs Beddowes best handbag and I have a notebook and fountain pen.”

“Good Lord! I wondered why you were away for so long, just now. You have really thought of everything!” Beech shook his head in disbelief. “But I think the handbag was a touch too much.”

“Not at all!” Caroline was adamant. “It’s the first thing they teach male medical students—‘base your fees on the price of a good lady’s handbag’—so all the male doctors are very aware of what a good handbag looks like and what it is worth.”

“Astonishing.” Beech marveled at Caroline’s attention to detail.

The cab journey to the doctors was spent in companionable silence until the cab turned off Oxford Street.

“Remember, Caro,” Beech murmured, “you are a secretary. That means you cannot venture any opinion or ask any questions. You will have no authority once we enter those rooms.”

“Understood,” Caroline replied. “It will probably kill me to keep quiet but I promise I won’t give the game away.”

Beech smiled fondly at her and they stepped on to the pavement to begin their little charade.