CHAPTER 9

Billy placed the pot of tea in front of the distressed women and reassured them that everything would be fine. Cook was not convinced.

“I shan’t be able to sleep a wink tonight, knowing that Mr Dodds was probably the one who murdered His Lordship and he could come back at any time …” she stifled a sob.

“We don’t know that, as yet,” said Beech firmly, entering from the butler’s quarters after taking Arthur’s phone call. “What we do know is this …” and he sat down and helped himself to a cup of tea “… our colleague has just informed us that Mr Dodds took the girl Polly to the Community of St Martha—an Anglican convent in the City of London—in the early hours of the morning of Lord Murcheson’s murder. He left her there, she spoke very little to the nuns, giving no indication whatsoever of what had taken place in this house, and Mr Dodds collected her from the convent yesterday in the late afternoon, early evening.”

“That was the last time we saw him,” said Esme, “he went out while I was talking to that nice lady who came from visiting Lady Harriet in hospital.”

“And he hasn’t been back since, nor has his bed been slept in,” contributed the parlormaid, Anne, her eyes wide with fear.

“It sounds to me like he did the evil deed,” said Cook, refusing to be swayed from her opinion, “and he’s taken poor Polly captive because she saw him do it!”

All three of the women began to sob quietly and Beech looked at Billy in exasperation.

Billy patted the Cook’s hand. “Don’t take on so, missus,” he said. “Let me have a quiet word with the Chief Inspector and see what we can do.”

Beech and Billy went to Dodds’ room for a talk.

“I could stay here for a few nights, sir,” he offered. “Give the women some peace of mind.”

Beech shook his head. “I appreciate the gesture, Rigsby, but you are too valuable to the team to act as a protector for these women. We need to find another constable to do this job. Any suggestions?”

Billy thought for a moment. “Well, there are blokes I know through the Sports Association, sir. Hopkins—he’s handy with his fists if there’s a problem. Or there’s Eastman—he’s a tall bloke, like me, and he’s a fast runner.”

“I think we’ll go for the fast runner. If Dodds turns up in the middle of the night, it’s likely he would run from a policeman rather than fight him. I’ll call the Yard. Eastman, you say?”

“Yes, sir. Harold Eastman. Usually works a beat on St James Division, sir. Around Piccadilly.”

“Right. I’ll telephone the division and get him seconded to this job. He need know nothing more than he is here to protect the females and apprehend a fugitive, should Dodds come back. You go back and tell the staff in the kitchen.”

Billy went back to the fearful women and told them the good news, for which he was rewarded with kisses and hugs from all concerned. Cook decided to fetch some cake and they were all seated around the table when Betsy, the laundry woman, arrived. Beech took her into the butler’s quarters to show her the bloodstained clothing that the cook had found in the dustbin. Betsy examined them carefully.

“Well, that’s definitely Lady Harriet’s nightdress. I wash that every week. But the apron—well, I’m not sure. It could be Polly’s—but it looks a bit on the large side to me. It’s possible that she might have been wearing the only clean and ironed apron available. Perhaps she dirtied her own and came down here and got a replacement.” Betsy pointed to the shelves in a room opposite, where white linen was folded on shelves. “I can soon tell you,” she said, marching across the corridor. She rummaged in the dirty linen bin, casting aprons aside on to the floor, as she spoke. “All the staff have four aprons, except Polly. She rarely gets asked to serve upstairs, so she only has one white serving apron. Well, those two are Esme’s—see the face powder on the skirts? She wears it, although she shouldn’t, and she sits down on her bed to put the powder on her face and there’s always some on the apron skirts after a couple of days. She’s wearing a clean one and there’s one on the shelf. These two gray aprons here are Anne’s. She wears them when she lays the fires and she always ends up getting black leading off the grate and soot from the chimney on her aprons. Of course, she’s wearing her serving apron at the moment and—” she looked on the shelves “—there’s her spare one. Anne is much bigger than Polly around the bust, sir. I know her aprons. And here—” she lifted two blue cotton aprons off the shelf “—are Polly’s kitchen aprons and her one, white serving apron. Cook’s aprons are in her room. So, all the aprons are accounted for, sir, and I don’t know where that bloodstained apron has come from.”

*   *   *

Caroline checked in on Lady Harriet. Matron had reported no change. Temperature still high, abdomen swollen and painful, patient sleeping most of the time, except when the nurses woke her to feed her soup and deal with necessities. One of the nurses was applying a cold compress to the forehead, in an attempt to bring down the fever, when Caroline came into the room. She motioned her to continue while she checked Lady Harriet’s heart and examined her abdomen. Matron was right. There was no change.

Frustrated by her day so far, she made a detour to the hospital pharmacy. She wanted to ask Mabel Summersby, the pharmacist, about the packet of suspected heroin she had in her pocket.

Mabel was avidly reading a scientific journal when Caroline entered and was utterly oblivious to anyone else being in the room. Caroline smiled.

Mabel really is the most terrible swot, she thought in amusement.

Every time she saw the middle-aged pharmacist, she had her nose in some book or journal—eager to learn more.

“Trying to get ahead of the men, eh?” observed Caroline wryly, and Mabel looked up, vaguely, and then smiled.

“Ah, Caroline … I’m actually reading the Journal of the British Roentgen Society. The Society has finally produced a set of safety guidelines for dealing with X-rays—and not before time, I might add. Animal studies proved ten years ago that overexposure to X-rays causes cancer and degrades many of the internal organs.”

Caroline raised her eyebrows at this particular piece of knowledge and resolved to consult Mabel before pressing for the hospital to acquire a mobile Roentgen machine after the war. She produced the neatly folded packet from her pocket and put it in front of Mabel.

“I suspect that this is heroin but I can’t be sure and, also, I don’t know where it has come from, since it is not labeled as coming from a pharmacy.”

“Why do you suspect it is heroin?” asked Mabel, curiously.

“Because it came from the possessions of a patient’s husband, who took a great many drugs. I’ve identified all the rest—they were patented drugs and clearly identified as so—oh, apart from some hand-rolled pills, which I suspect are opium. But this powder eludes me. It could be cocaine, I suppose. I wondered if you could test it for me?”

“Of course, but there are a couple of tests we can do here and now.” Mabel switched an electric lamp on, opened the packet of powder, and held it under the lamp. “It’s not cocaine,” she said firmly. “Cocaine is more crystalline and it sort of sparkles under harsh light, no matter how finely it is ground.” Next, she licked her finger and dabbed it into the powder and tasted it. She pulled a face. “Ugh, that’s bitter! Exceptionally so! It is probably heroin but mixed with quinine, which makes it extra bitter but gives an extra excitement to the brain.” She took a tiny spoon and added some of the powder to a test tube of water. The water turned slightly cloudy but most of the powder remained on top. Mabel took down from the shelves a large brown bottle labeled “Citric Acid” and added a small amount to the test tube. Immediately the water began to produce small bubbles and the powder began to sink from the top and dissolve. “My feeling is that this is heroin, which will only dissolve in water in the presence of some acid. It has quinine added but—” she peered at the test tube “—I suspect something else as well. There is a powdery residue there which could be anything—chalk, sodium bicarbonate—I won’t know until I do further tests. I’ll tell you one thing though,” she added, “this is not pharmaceutical-grade heroin. This is the sort of stuff sold by criminal gangs.”

“How do you know that, Mabel?” asked Caroline, in admiration of Mabel’s encyclopedic knowledge.

“Because when I worked at the London Hospital, it’s the sort of stuff we would confiscate from the gang members when they came into the hospital with knife wounds. They sell it and by mixing the pure heroin with other substances, they could make a little go a long way, and make more money, I suppose.”

“Thank you, that’s most helpful. There is something else you might be able to help me with.”

Mabel perked up in interest.

“I have a patient with severe abdominal injuries,” Caroline continued, “and, despite all my precautions during surgery, she has developed an infection, and I fear she is not strong enough for me to open her up again to irrigate the wound. Is there anything I could apply externally that might help? We have applied topical antiseptics as per standard procedure, but time is running out and I’m wondering if there is anything else I may have not thought of. Anything is worth a shot at this point as it’s looking terribly serious.”

Mabel’s eyes lit up. “Wintergreen,” she said emphatically. “Try a wintergreen poultice. It contains methyl salicylate, which metabolizes into salicylic acid, the stuff in Aspirin tablets. Aspirin is proving to be a good anti-inflammatory and it also thins the blood, so it may filter through the wound and cut down inflammation and also, hopefully, stop her getting any blood clots. Give it a try.”

Caroline smiled. “Mabel, you’re a genius! Let me know if you find out any more about the heroin powder. Here’s my telephone number if I’m off duty.” She wrote “Mayfair 100” on a piece of paper. “Out of curiosity, why did you leave the London?”

Mabel snorted derisively. “They had five pharmacists and I was the only woman. The only thing they would let me do was hand-roll pills and suppositories. At least here I’m my own boss and I can do experiments.”

“Of course, silly of me to ask.” Caroline flashed her a grateful smile and set off to find Matron and order a wintergreen poultice for Lady Harriet.

*   *   *

The team had assembled back at Lady Maud’s house and were being fortified by some of Mrs Beddowes’ scones and a large pot of tea.

“So,” said Beech, after hearing the full account of Victoria’s conversation with the Reverend Mother, “we have a missing girl, abducted by the butler, who also appears to be on the run, and we have a bloodstained apron that does not appear to have been worn by the missing girl. What are we to make of that?”

“The butler did it, like I said all along,” said Billy, through a mouthful of scone.

“Wearing a woman’s apron, I suppose?” commented Arthur drily.

Billy paused, digesting this observation, and finding no answer, decided to butter another scone while he thought about it.

“I’m fearful for Polly’s life, Peter,” said Victoria, “as it seems she probably witnessed something which has put her in danger. If only we had a photograph of her that we could circulate among the police force.”

Arthur stirred and the assembled company could almost hear the cogs whirring around in his brain. “Did the staff say that Polly came from Doctor Barnardo’s?” he asked slowly.

“Yes,” said Beech, hopefully.

“Then Barnardo’s will have a photograph of her. They take a picture of all the orphans when they arrive and when they leave. Part of their policy. Sadly, not all their children go on to lead respectable lives in paid work. I have had occasion, in my career, to use Doctor Barnardo’s photographs to find some right little tearaways in the East End.”

Victoria patted Arthur on the back. “Your experience and memory have come to the rescue again, Mr Tollman,” she said admiringly.

Ingesting a second scone seemed to wake up Billy’s desire to contribute to the team and he said suddenly, “The cook said that the butler had only come to work at the Murcheson house when His Lordship came back from the front. And she didn’t rate him much as a butler either. Said he didn’t seem to know what a butler should do half the time.”

Beech nodded. “That’s a useful nugget of information, Rigsby, very useful.”

Billy grinned with pleasure.

Arthur took in a deep breath and everyone looked at him expectantly. “I might be taking a bit of a leap in the dark here, sir, but is it possible that the butler has a criminal record? He seems an untrustworthy sort of chap. We may have his photograph in the files at the Yard.”

“Brilliant, Tollman!” exclaimed Beech. “Then I suggest, if everyone is suitably refreshed, you and I go to the Yard and start looking at photographs while Mrs Ellingham and Rigsby go to Doctor Barnardo’s and seek a photograph of Polly. Rigsby, once you have the photograph of the girl, escort Mrs Ellingham back here and then bring it over to the Yard. We’ll get their printing presses working on any photographs we can dig up and then, tomorrow, we should be able to circulate them.”

*   *   *

Billy and Victoria took a taxi cab to Liverpool Street and caught the Great Eastern train to Ilford. Billy was not as comfortable in her presence as he was with the doctor but he soon found himself responding with ease to Victoria’s gentle questioning. He found himself telling her all about his childhood in Hoxton, his family—largely female—and his absentee father, who was in the army.

“Didn’t really know him, Miss,” he answered cheerfully in response to Victoria’s question about his father. “He was away in the army for most of my young life and then he got killed in South Africa when I was about eight or nine. All I remember was a really big, cheerful bloke who always brought me home nice presents. My mum worshipped him. She never said a bad word about him. That’s why I joined the Grenadier Guards, Miss. Same regiment as him.”

Victoria smiled. “Was he a boxer too?”

Billy grinned and nodded. “I suppose I’m more like him than I thought,” he conceded.

“How did you start in boxing, Mr Rigsby?” She found everything about the young policemen extremely fascinating.

“Please, Miss, just call me Billy.”

Victoria nodded happily. “Of course.”

Billy told her all about life in Hoxton, which caused the smile to fade a little from her lips. “Violent place is Hoxton, Miss. Lots of street gangs. Vicious. Petty criminals most of them. Like the Silver Hatchet gang—they operate out of Highbury way, just up the road from where I lived. Then there was the Hoxton Boys, the Canonbury Boys …” Billy detailed gang after gang who roamed the streets, mostly fighting turf wars with each other and making the locals’ lives a misery.

Victoria murmured her distaste and Billy shrugged.

“Anyway,” Billy continued, “my mum and her sisters decided that they weren’t going to see me go the way of the other boys in the neighborhood but they knew that if I was going to stay out of the gangs I would have to be able to look after myself. So they packed me off, every evening after school, to the boxing school at Hoxton Baths when I was about ten. By the time I was fifteen I was boxing in amateur bouts in the ring at the Baths—and winning too.” He grinned again. “Then I went in the Grenadier Guards at eighteen and I started boxing for the regiment. Army Light Heavyweight Champion two years running.” Then the grin dropped from his face as he looked at his damaged hand. “Won’t be doing that no more,” he said dully.

Victoria felt a stab of pity but decided, sensibly, to be positive.

“But now you have a new life!” she said breezily, “And I don’t know about you but I’m enjoying the challenge immensely!”

Billy snapped out of his moment of self-pity and rewarded her with another grin. “You’re dead right there, Miss. This looks like it’s going to be a rum do. I feel like I’m a proper policeman now and no mistake!”

Victoria laughed and decided to tell Billy all about her spell at London University training in law. “There were only three women studying among all these irritating men and every time the professors covered a point of law that involved anything to do with prostitution, homosexuality or divorce, they would bar us from the lectures and we would have to go and look up the legislation in the library.” She looked at Billy with amusement because, although she found it ridiculous, she could tell that the young policeman wasn’t sure.

“I expect they thought they were protecting you, Miss,” he offered helpfully.

“I suppose you’re right,” she conceded. “But the world is changing and, as this war has shown, women have to become involved in the unpleasant side of life. And when they allow women to become practicing lawyers and to have the vote, perhaps we will also be able to change things for the better.”

Billy looked uncertain and was about to comment when he suddenly realized that they were at Ilford Station.

“Sorry, Miss, but here’s our stop!”

Outside the station, Victoria was astonished to find that the only form of transport available was horse-drawn.

“Good Lord! We’re barely outside of London and we seem to have gone back in time!” she murmured to Billy as he helped her into the hansom cab. The small town that huddled around Ilford Station soon gave way to lush countryside, causing Victoria to revise her hitherto unreasonable prejudice of anywhere east of London. “It’s really rather beautiful,” she commented.

Billy nodded. “I’d like my old mum to move out here,” he said wistfully. “Out of Hoxton, Bit of fresh air. But she won’t leave the smoke. She says all her family are there and then she says, ‘And I won’t see you so much, Billy, and then what would I do? It would break my heart!’ ”

Victoria was even more astonished when the hansom turned into what appeared to be the grounds of a stately home but the plaque on the pillars of the driveway proclaimed “Barnardo’s Girls’ Village.”

“This is an orphanage?” She looked at Billy in astonishment. “I had no idea! I thought they were all grim places, like workhouses—” she fumbled for the right description “—like in Oliver Twist.”

The cab trotted past rolling, manicured lawns, and landscaped groves of trees and she began to see clusters of large Mock Tudor houses ahead. “Quite amazing,” she murmured.

When they drew to a halt, several girls in starched white aprons walked past the hansom and went into the main building. Victoria continued to be impressed.

Billy asked the cab to wait and they went into the building themselves. Almost immediately, a woman came out of a door near to the entrance, looking concerned.

“Oh dear,” she said at once. “The girls said there was a policeman outside, I do hope it is not bad news!” She recovered her composure and extended her hand. “I’m Mrs Mitchell, the Senior Superintendent here. How can I help?”

Victoria shook her hand and explained the situation about Lord Murcheson’s murder and Polly having gone missing.

Mrs Mitchell’s face betrayed her horror. “Not Polly Sutton! Oh dear me! No, Polly can’t possibly be involved in anything nefarious! She is one of our sweetest pupils!”

Victoria assured Mrs Mitchell that they were not accusing Polly of anything, they were merely concerned that she could be in danger because she may have witnessed the crime. “We have come to you in the hope that you can provide a photograph of Polly so that we can make a thorough search for her.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Anything we can do to help. Please, come in the office and I shall find a photograph.” Mrs Mitchell recovered her composure and offered them tea, which they accepted gratefully. The Superintendent went off to find the necessary photograph while a young girl brought in a tray of tea.

Billy removed his helmet and the young girl winced slightly at the sight of his facial scar.

“War wound,” said Billy, with a smile, by way of explanation, and the girl blushed.

Victoria looked at the girl with interest. Her hair was beautifully brushed and braided. Her clothes were spotless and the fact that she was wearing the starched white apron seemed to suggest that she was a resident of the establishment.

“Thank you, dear,” said Victoria gently. Then she asked the girl’s name.

“Emily, Miss,” came the soft reply.

“And do you live here, Emily?”

The girl nodded.

“How long have you lived here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“All my life, Miss. I was a foundling, Miss.”

Victoria thought her heart would explode for the girl but she continued the conversation.

“Do you like it here, Emily?”

The girl smiled. “Oh yes, Miss!”

Victoria persisted. “How old are you?”

“Twelve, Miss. When I’m fourteen, I’m going to go into service,” she volunteered cheerfully.

Mrs Mitchell appeared, clutching a photograph. “That will be all, Emily, thank you,” she said in a firm but kind voice and Emily gave a little curtsey and left. “I do hope the girl hasn’t been bothering you with her chatter. We try to teach our girls to be seen and not heard.”

“No, no!” Victoria protested. “She was charming. It was I who initiated a conversation. She told me that she will go into service when she is fourteen.”

Mrs Mitchell gave a small smile. “Yes, well that is what we train them for. The girls learn housekeeping skills and we prepare the boys for the armed forces. We try to do the best that we can for them. All the households our girls are placed with are thoroughly vetted. Which makes Polly Sutton’s predicament so inexplicable.”

“Presumably, you vetted the Murcheson household and Polly was placed there before Lord Murcheson came back from the war?” Victoria asked.

“Yes. That is correct. Lady Harriet herself was extremely kind and we thought there would be no problem. Whatever happened?”

Victoria paused for a moment, unsure how to proceed, but then decided that the Superintendent should be informed. “Lord Murcheson came back from the war very damaged, I’m afraid. Physically as well as mentally. The police do not yet know who murdered him but they do know that he was violent and abusive in the months leading up to his murder.”

Mrs Mitchell looked anguished. “Oh dear. Poor Polly and poor Lady Harriet. Who could have foreseen such a thing?”

Victoria felt she had to give some advice. “Mrs Mitchell, there is a strong possibility that many men may come back in a similar condition to Lord Murcheson. This war does seem to be taking a terrible toll on our menfolk. You may want to give some thought to that when you place your charges in service in the future. Or perhaps you might give your girls some … support … which of course, I’m sure you do …” she added hastily, not wishing to appear critical. “I’m sure that they can contact you if their placement should become … difficult.”

Mrs Mitchell looked flustered. Victoria was obviously raising questions that had not been fully addressed before.

“Yes,” she responded. “Yes. Of course the girls can always contact us if there are problems but perhaps I should raise it with the Board of Governors, in the light of Polly Sutton’s case. Perhaps we should make provisions for the unusual war situation … as you say. We really don’t know what is going to happen in the future, do we?”

Victoria smiled, satisfied that she had made her point. Mrs Mitchell handed over the photograph and they made their exit.

Victoria didn’t really look at the photograph until she and Billy were back on the train headed for London.

“Look, Billy.” She held the photograph out for him to see. “That’s what bravery and loyalty looks like.”

Billy nodded. “That poor girl’s not had it easy in life, has she? Mind you—” he gazed out of the window at the retreating countryside “—if I was a foundling, I can honestly say I’d be very happy to be in a place like that Girls’ Village. Good for Doctor Barnardo, that’s what I say.”

*   *   *

Arthur and Beech had spent the morning in the Criminal Investigation Department, leafing through large leather-bound books of photographs. Arthur reflected that this had only been possible due to Chief Inspector Beech’s seniority. If he had tried to access the files by himself—a lowly Detective Sergeant who had been pensioned off and then re-commissioned—he would have faced a barrage of questions about why he wanted access to the files, what case he was working on and what authority he had. Beech had been able to walk in and demand unrestricted access without question.

The boys in the CID didn’t like being kept out of the picture when there was an investigation going on. They had heard, through the grapevine, that Beech had set up a special task force and they were none too happy about it.

If they knew about the ladies involved in our little team, thought Arthur, they’d be lodging a formal complaint with the Commissioner.

As it was, he could see that they kept giving the two men sideways glances. They were definitely not happy being kept at arm’s length.

After two hours of non-stop searching, punctuated only by mugs of tea, Beech stretched and look frustrated. “This is getting us nowhere,” he muttered, and Arthur looked at the pile of books still to be done.

“I can search on my own, sir. There’s no need for you to waste valuable time,” he suggested.

“God no!” Beech was adamant that he would continue. “I just need to stretch my leg, otherwise it stiffens up and gives me hell. I’ll just take a turn around the building and get a bit of exercise.”

As he got up and left, Arthur waited for the detectives to start coming over. He smiled to himself as the first one appeared in Beech’s vacated seat.

“What’s all this new task force about then, Tollman?” he asked, with no preamble.

Arthur looked up into the face of one Detective Sergeant Carter. A very ambitious man and the one detective that Arthur would have laid money on being the first to try and glean some information.

“Nothing for you to get your hands dirty with, Carter,” replied Arthur dismissively. “Just something for old blokes like me to while away their time on.”

“Oh yes?” Carter persisted. “You don’t know what I might like to get involved in. I might fancy a promotion.”

Arthur laughed hollowly. “Well, you won’t get honors doing what I’m doing, Carter. It’s just old cases … tying up loose ends … that sort of thing.”

“Oh? Old cases, you say.” An edge came into Carter’s voice. “That wouldn’t be an implied criticism of this department would it, Tollman? I mean you wouldn’t be trying to prove that we haven’t been doing our job properly, would you?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur caught a description on the page in front of him. It said: “George Sumpter, aka George Dodds, aka George Egan. Arrested for petty theft 23rd March 1913. Prosecuted at Clerkenwell. Sentenced to 1 year in Pentonville.” Arthur realized that he didn’t know what Dodds looked like, so he would have to await the return of the Chief Inspector. He laid his hand firmly on the page and looked up at Carter.

“Are you worried that you haven’t been doing your job properly, Carter?” asked Arthur, looking steadily at the man opposite. “It sounds to me, son, as though you are worried.”

Carter looked hard at Arthur, trying to read any implications in his face but failing. His mouth curled into a sneer and he was about to say something when Beech loped into view.

“Perhaps you’d like to raise your concerns with the Chief Inspector?” Arthur nodded in the direction of the advancing Beech and smiled, with a hint of sarcasm.

Beech had arrived. “Keeping my seat warm for me, Detective Sergeant?” he asked breezily. He had caught the looks exchanged between Carter and Arthur, and had decided to defuse the situation.

“Yes, sir!” Carter leapt to his feet, blustering. “Just passing the time of day with DS Tollman here. We haven’t seen each other in a while.”

“Well, that’s good but I’m sure you have work to do,” murmured Beech, seemingly engrossed in the book in front of him.

“Yes sir!” Carter moved off, but not before flashing Arthur a look of distrust which signaled that their conversation was not over.

“The jackals are circling, I see,” said Beech quietly. “Any problems?”

“No, sir,” answered Arthur. “They’ve heard about the team …”

“Good God! Not the …” Beech looked alarmed.

“No, sir.” Arthur interrupted firmly. “Just me and Rigsby being pulled off normal duties. I told them it’s all about investigating old cases. Just boring administration work.”

“Good man!” Beech was relieved.

“That one—” Arthur nodded toward the retreating Carter “—is worried that we’re going to sully the reputation of the CID, but he’s also sniffing around to see if he might get his feet under the table. We’ll have to watch him.”

Beech nodded.

“I’ve found something, sir,” Arthur continued, “but I need you to identify the man.” He slid the heavy book over to Beech.

“That’s him,” Beech said with certainty. “He’s put on a bit of weight since then but it’s definitely him.”

At that point, Billy Rigsby appeared, which caused the CID men to pause whatever they were doing and watch him, stonily, as he made his way across the room.

“Bit of a chill in here,” observed Billy under his breath to Arthur.

“Ignore them, lad.”

“I’ve got the picture of Polly, sir,” Billy said quietly.

“And we have what we were looking for,” replied Beech, removing the photograph from the file. “Let’s take them down to the printing department.”

As the trio left, Arthur noted that Carter made a move on the identification books and began to leaf through to find out what they had removed. He sighed.

So unrelentingly territorial, he thought. We’re going to have to watch Carter. He’s too bloody nosy.