I COULD NOT bring myself to hate Miss March Middleton – in fact I admired her enormously – but her accounts of her investigations with the Personal Detective, Sidney Grice, made my Ruby Gibson adventures seem what they were – very trivial indeed.
They may be trivial to you, Ruby objected, but they are life and death to me.
If Mr Grice were present he would have sniffed the envelope and detected a rare blend of pipe tobacco or a perfume produced exclusively for a Hungarian countess. He would have discovered the wing of an extinct beetle or a curry stain that could have only come from one particular village in the Punjab. The list was endless of what he could have deduced from the ink.
I surveyed the envelope. It was creased, once white and pre-gummed as were most modern examples. The address was handwritten, though not very neatly, in purple-black ink, presumably iron gall. PERSONAL was scrawled in block capitals in the top left-hand corner.
The flap was open, of course, and I lifted it back to pull out the letter. It was written with the same ink and handwriting but on torn-out blank paper, probably the fly leaf of a book.
‘Does Mrs Poynder not have her own headed notepaper?’ I asked in surprise, for even Agnust had a box of that, given to her by a would-be gentleman admirer in the vain hope that she would enter into a correspondence with him.
‘She always has had,’ Martha told me, ‘but, even if she had run out, Edward would not have done so and,’ she added, ‘the envelope was crumpled like that when it was delivered.’
A sense of unease came over me. This had all the hallmarks of being secretly written and possibly smuggled. But why? The woman was not in prison.
T, I read to myself, I have made a terrible mistake. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, PLEASE meet me today at one in the Cafè Cordoba. I really need to see you. D +.
There were so many things wrong that it was difficult to know where to begin.
‘Is this her handwriting?’ I asked incredulously.
A skivvy might not be ashamed of it, but we were discussing a doctor’s wife.
‘No,’ Martha admitted, ‘but I am convinced it came from her.’
‘Why?’
‘Well the T for a start,’ she began. ‘It was a joke between us and the kiss at the end. She always put them horizontally.’ Martha drew it in the air with her index finger. ‘Like a plus sign… and the accent over Cafè.’
‘Grave instead of acute,’ I observed.
‘She said it was because she was left-handed and had been forced to use her right.’ Martha drew on her cigarette, leaned her head back and blew smoke into the air.
I glanced at the back of the letter, which was blank, refolded the note and was about to put it back when I discovered what to Mr G would have been the clue that solved the entire case instantly. I, however, was not at all sure even that there was a case. I peered into the envelope.
‘Is Mrs Poynder’s cat white?’ I asked and Martha nodded.
‘Black and white. Why?’
I licked my finger and dabbed it to pick up and show her my find – a long hair.
‘Chaos moults a lot.’
‘So I see.’ I gave myself a mental pat on the back. ‘And he has kindly provided us with more evidence that it came from your friend.’
‘I suppose so,’ she conceded, not nearly so impressed by me as I was.
Well I thought you did quite well, Ruby defended me for, while she might disparage my efforts, she usually rallied to support me against outsiders.
‘When did you receive this?’ I asked coolly, remembering that this woman had imposed herself upon me and could have at least tried to look astonished.
‘Four weeks ago today.’
I realised at once that I could have deduced that for myself from the postmark and hoped that my visitor did not come to the same conclusion. Sidney Grice could rest on his laurels a while yet, I reflected ruefully.
‘And did you go?’
‘Of course,’ Martha said but, before my hackles had had a chance to stir she hastened, ‘I am sorry. There is no of course about it. You are not to know if I could find it in my heart to forgive her slights.’
It was also possible that Martha had had a previous appointment that she could not or did not wish to cancel or she might have not read the letter in time, but I restricted my response to, ‘What happened?’
I handed the letter back and she tucked the flap back into the envelope before returning it to her bag.
‘I waited an hour and a half but she did not come.’
‘And there was no message or any subsequent communication?’
‘No, nothing,’ Martha said, crestfallen. ‘I went every day for the week in case Dolly had been delayed somehow but there was no sign of her.’
I sampled my coffee. It was tepid at best.
‘So what did you do?’
Martha twisted her cigarette around in its holder for no reason that I could discern other than to distract herself.
‘I made another telephone call.’
‘When?’
‘In the afternoon after my second and third visits to the Cordoba, then the next morning and one early evening, a Thursday when I knew Edward would be doing a private session at the nursing home. Dolores and I used to meet up in each other’s homes for a drink those evenings or even have dinner together if Arthur was at his club.’
Martha balanced her cigarette holder on the edge of the ashtray.
‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘When you rang?’
‘Wormwood always told me that his mistress was not at home.’ Martha shifted uncomfortably. ‘The penultimate time he said that she had instructed him to say that I was not to call again. On the last occasion he replaced the receiver the moment he heard my voice.’
I do not trust her, Ruby hissed in my ear. She dyes her hair.
Well I do.
Dye your hair? At least she had the grace to sound surprised.
Trust her.
All right then, she challenged. Prove it.
I brought out my little red notebook with my magic pencil.
‘Could you write her full name, address and telephone number for me?’
I handed them over, having first pulled the ring to extrude the lead, and Martha took them questioningly.
‘I thought I could call Haglin House,’ I explained and, seeing her alarm, added, ‘There is no need to worry. I will not break any confidences.’
‘But why can I not simply tell you the number?’
‘People more often misremember numbers when they say them out loud,’ I said. ‘Most commonly they reverse the order of the last two digits but they will be absolutely convinced they have been correct. Or I might mishear you,’ I ended as a sop.
Her writing, I was pleased to note, looked nothing like that on the note that she had shown me. Apart from having an educated hand, Martha’s H, for example, was done in straightish lines, but the one Dolores had supposedly written was crumpled as if somebody heavy had sat upon it even after I had smoothed the paper out.
Happy now? I demanded.
I shall be happier when…
I am dealing with it, I snapped.
‘Are you all right?’ Martha asked, in a tone I might use to check on a dipsomaniac in the gutter.
‘Yes,’ I assured her. ‘I was just thinking.’
I got up and crossed the room to where my telephone stood on a table. It was the latest candlestick design and a great improvement on the old box with the handle that I used to have to crank like a miniature butter churn.
‘I am not sure…’ she worried, but I was already asking the operator for the number and, after a few clicks and crackles found myself being put through. ‘What will you say?’
She hurried over to listen and I put a finger to my lips.
‘Dr Edward Poynder’s residence,’ a man’s deep voice declared.
‘Summon your mistress, Wormwood,’ I commanded, lowering my own voice half an octave in the hope that he would not identify it if we spoke again.
‘I regret to inform you that Mrs Poynder is not at home,’ Wormwood told me in that tone all servants adopt when they do not regret a thing at all.
‘When will she be home?’
‘I fear I cannot say, madam. Whom may I enquire is calling?’
No matter how superior they pretend to be, butlers always get who and whom mixed up. It is almost one of their duties along with saying madam so respectfully as to border on insolence.
Tell him he may not, Ruby urged.
He already has, I countered before remembering that my conversation was supposed to be with Wormwood.
‘Dr Poynder will be most unhappy,’ I forecast, ‘when I inform him that you did not recognise me.’
I replaced the earpiece and the hook dropped, cutting the line.
‘I am not sure what that achieved,’ Martha fretted.
‘Wormwood told me that his mistress was not at home before even asking for my name,’ I told her. ‘Which means that she is unavailable to everybody. It appears that she is either unwilling or unable to speak and you, Martha, are not the only one who would like to know why.’
‘I know why.’ Martha returned to her chair brushing against her handbag so that it fell onto my Kashan rug, spilling its contents on the floor. ‘Oh for goodness sake!’
The box of vestas had come open, scattering them over a surprisingly wide area. She crouched to pick them up and I knelt to help.
‘It is all right. I can manage,’ she said, staring at the debris but making no effort to do anything with it.
A gold locket with no chain had gone under the desk and I fished it out. The lid was cast into a stem and leaves crowned by a ruby and turquoise flower.
‘This is lovely,’ I said and the lid sprang open.
‘That is why I do not wear it,’ Martha told me. ‘The catch is faulty. I keep meaning to get it repaired, but I do not like to be parted from it.’
‘A gift?’ It did not look old enough to be an heirloom.
‘From Dolores.’
‘A generous lady.’
‘She is,’ Martha confirmed. ‘Very.’
There was a lock of corn-gold hair woven into a spiral behind glass in the left-hand compartment and a photographic portrait in the right.
‘Is this…’
‘Dolly,’ she told me. ‘She had it taken before she went away so that I did not forget her.’ Cracks ran across the surface of Martha’s voice. ‘As if I could.’
I handed the locket back to her but not before I had seen the subject of my enquiries – a young, light-haired woman with the profile of an innocent child.
‘I gave Dolores a locket with my portrait in return,’ Martha recalled. ‘It was nothing like as expensive as this though.’
A metallic clattering rose above the general hubbub of street-sellers and carriages and we both looked up.
‘Captain Heavers,’ I diagnosed. ‘He often drives his motor car through the square.’
A Daimler motorised carriage came into view, the captain steering expertly with the handlebars around a Capricorn Brewers’ waggon turning down the side of the Splendid Hotel. The giant Suffolk Punch hauling the beer barrels edged away nervously.
‘I’m surprised nobody throws one of those cabbages at him,’ Martha commented disapprovingly.
‘Not with Hector on board.’ I referred to the mastiff sprawled over the back seat. ‘The last man who tried something like that almost lost an arm.’
There had been attempts to ban motorised vehicles from the town centre. Apart from their disturbing the horses, Squire Crow had crippled a child in Bardham when he had lost control of his vehicle and run off the road. Poor Crow had been most discomforted by the incident and was forced to dismiss his housekeeper, the child’s mother, for moping.
I gathered Martha’s address book and card case.
‘You said that you knew why your friend is incommunicado,’ I reminded her.
‘Yes.’ She finished collecting her things, clipped her long-suffering bag shut and we both rose to our feet.
There was a faint grubby mark on my dress, I noticed. Any other mistress would reprimand her maid for allowing the rug to get dirty, but I had a shrewd suspicion that I knew who would be scolding whom.
‘I did not want to say, when I first came, in case you thought I was hysterical,’ Martha hesitated. ‘But I feel certain that I can trust you, Violet.’
‘You can,’ I avowed.
I wish I could, Ruby piffed.
In my experience beautiful women do not commit crimes, Hefty contributed. They have no need to.
I did not mention Francesca da Grimini, who had almost killed him in the whispering gallery of St Paul’s, breaking three of his fingers and his heart in the attempt.
What about sweet little Francesca? Ruby taunted and he reeled away.
Cane Braise was going past, the children flocking around his bright yellow gig while he tossed toffees to their outstretched hands.
Martha lowered her head and, for a while, I thought that she was not going to say any more but then she raised it, quickly as if she had been jolted awake.
‘Because Edward Poynder is keeping Dolores prisoner,’ she whispered, seemingly incredulous at her own words.