Fanny answered when Gwen called.
“It’s Sophie,” said Gwen. “How are you?”
“Same as ever,” said Fanny. “What’s up?”
“Mary and I were wondering if you and the girls would like to get together later today.”
“That’d be lovely. Elsie’s working right now, but she’s always up for a night out. Would you like to get together for tea earlier, you, me, and Mary?”
“Mary’s at work, too, but I’m free. Where?”
“There’s a nice shop called Nell’s by the Spitalfields Market. Is three thirty good?”
“Three thirty, it is. Let me get the address from you.”
“It’s on Commercial Street, up from the Ten Bells.”
“Got it. See you at four.”
She hung up, then wrote out the information for Sally to pass along to Iris.
The telephone rang while she was putting the note on the typewriter. She answered.
“Is Iris there?”
“I’m sorry, she’s out of the office at the moment,” said Gwen. “May I take a message?”
“Yes. Please tell her to call Jessie.”
“Jessie? Are you her friend from the Records Department?”
There was a long pause at the other end of the line.
“You know about that?” asked Jessie finally.
“We’re partners,” said Gwen.
“Well, she wasn’t supposed to tell anyone,” said Jessie. “Tell her to call me. She has my number. And tell her I’m not happy about you knowing about me.”
“Look, I’m sorry if—” Gwen began, but the line went dead.
Sally showed up at one.
“How did things go with the gorgon last night?” he asked.
“I looked her in the eye and stared her down,” said Gwen.
“And you’ve not been turned to a statue,” observed Sally. “Well done.”
“I should retain you as my acting coach and tactical adviser,” said Gwen.
“Whatever you need, Milady,” said Sally. “I see my marching orders on the Bar-Let. Are you off? Will there be danger and derring-do?”
“There will be tea,” said Gwen, fetching her beret. “I may risk a crumpet, possibly two, but that will be the extent of my escapades.”
“An army travels on its stomach,” said Sally.
“How very awkward that must be,” said Gwen.
“One gets used to it. Off to war with you, Milady. Let the crumpets sound!”
“May your Muse bless you, Sally,” she replied, pulling out her bus map. “Oh, I must ask you—where exactly is the Spitalfields Market?”
The Number 8 bus took her as far as Liverpool Street Station. She walked from there. After a few wrong turns, a costermonger sent her in the correct direction. She passed by the market, a covered, red brick building that sprawled across most of a large square block, and came to Commercial Street. The Ten Bells was on the south corner opposite the market. Next to it was an eel and pie shop, with buckets of future meals in front, writhing slowly in silvery tangles while awaiting their fates. Up from that was Nell’s Tearoom, with tempting arrays of cakes, tarts, biscuits, and crumpets displayed on cake stands in its windows.
Fanny was already in front, looking anxiously up and down in search of Gwen. When she saw her, she gave a cheerful wave.
“I’m early!” she shouted as Gwen crossed the street. “You’re spot on time. Any trouble finding it?”
“Some, but I’ve been getting better at my navigating,” said Gwen. “I’m thinking of trying to get a job as a conductress.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” said Fanny. “Except when it’s bad weather. You get proper soaked.”
They went inside. The place was packed, mostly by women, many with small children screaming for sweets.
“Nice and quiet,” grinned Fanny. “Tea?”
“Fine by me,” said Gwen.
“Those cherry tarts look yummy.”
“They do, but I’ve been in a crumpetty mood ever since you suggested tea, so I’m going to have some.”
They placed their orders, then Fanny carried the tray over to a table by the kitchen door.
“This all right?” she asked.
“Suits me,” said Gwen, taking the seat by the corner.
Fanny poured, then took a bite of a cherry tart.
“Oh, this is good,” she sighed in ecstasy. “Try some. I’ll trade you for a bite of that crumpet.”
Gwen leaned forward for the offered pastry and took a bite.
“That is good,” she said. “I haven’t tasted cherries in an age.”
“They got an in with someone, I bet,” said Fanny. “Some cherry farmer out in, I dunno, Kent.”
“Kent? Is that where cherries come from?”
“I don’t rightly know for certain,” said Fanny. “I read it in a book once. Do you know?”
“I’ve never thought about it,” said Gwen. “They magically appeared in markets, and I ate them.”
“Yeah, that magic is gone, innit?” said Fanny. “Of all the things I missed during the war, I missed cherries the most. It’s still ’ard to find ’em ’alf the time.”
She took a sip of tea, looking at Gwen over the edge of her cup as she did.
“There’s something you wanted to talk about, isn’t there?” asked Gwen.
“What makes you think that?”
“You invited me to a tearoom outside of your neighbourhood,” said Gwen. “And you picked a table as far back from the window as you could.”
“You don’t miss a trick, do you?” said Fanny. “Yeah, there’s something I wanted to ask you about.”
“All right. What?”
“Des.”
“Ah. I thought that might be it.”
“You know how people are,” said Fanny. “There’s talk already.”
“About what?”
“About ’im taking a fancy to you.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. Nothing has happened between us.”
“But ’e asked you out, din’t ’e?”
“He asked me to call him,” Gwen acknowledged.
“And you’re going to, ain’tcha?” asked Fanny, almost eagerly.
“I haven’t made up my mind.”
“What?” exclaimed Fanny. “But ’ow could you not? I’d go quick as a flash if ’e gave me the nod.”
“It’s complicated,” said Gwen.
“Look, if it’s me you’re worried about, don’t,” said Fanny. “I’ve never got the time of day from ’im, and I’m not going to throw meself at ’is feet no more. ’E’s all yours.”
“He’s not mine, and I’m not his,” said Gwen. “But I’m glad that it won’t be disturbing you.”
“Well, other fish, I ’ope,” said Fanny. “I’ll keep looking. At least I’m not so desperate that I got to try that place Tillie went to.”
“Do you think she was desperate?” asked Gwen somewhat guiltily.
“She wanted to get out of the East End,” said Fanny.
“Because of Roger?”
“Oh, ’im,” laughed Fanny dismissively. “She was ’appy to ’ave dropped ’im, although I din’t know ’e was seeing Mary on the sly. Did you?”
“I knew Mary was seeing someone, but she didn’t give me any details,” said Gwen. “I thought it might have been a married man.”
“Oh, she’s not particular about sharing, then?”
“I don’t ask,” said Gwen. “I don’t judge. She’s my friend.”
“Yeah, I know what that’s like,” said Fanny. “We go to church on Sundays, then chase spivs around the other six. ’Ave fun while you’re young, I say.”
“I can’t say no to that,” said Gwen. “I guess Tillie wanted to break away from that lot. Had there been anyone before Roger?”
“Nothing steady,” said Fanny. “She liked to be wined and dined. She favoured Archie’s lot as they ’ad the means to wine and dine ’er.”
“They didn’t scare her, then?”
“Not them.”
“Not Rog?”
“Especially not Rog,” said Fanny. “She useter say, ‘’Ere’s me finger, and that’s Rog wrapped around it. Thinks ’e’s using me, but I’m using ’im just as much.’”
“Sounds like they were made for each other.”
“A match made in ’eaven, they was, until they wasn’t. I was gobsmacked when they split, but now I understand everything.”
“I wish I did,” said Gwen. “That was a month ago?”
“Something like that. Then before you know it, she’s dead in an alley. Not ten minutes’ walk from ’ere.”
“It happened near here?”
“You din’t know?”
“I don’t know the East End,” said Gwen. “I never put a place to the name. She had gone to some café, I forget which.”
“The Garland. It’s over on Middlesex Street.”
“So, not Shadwell, not Wapping. She didn’t want to be seen.”
“Like me,” said Fanny. “Like to take a butchers?”
“What? The café?”
“Yeah. I’m curious. I want to know if ’er last meal was any good.”
“That’s—that’s extremely morbid, isn’t it?”
“Then I’m morbid,” declared Fanny. “’Ow about you?”
“I—oh, what the hell. Now, you’ve got me curious. Lead the way.”
Middlesex Street was to the southwest of Spitalfields Market, a one-way street with shops lining the sidewalks, with one or two storeys of flats and offices above. The Garland Café was topped by a bright, green and white striped awning. The two women peered through the window.
The interior was lovely. The floor was tiled in a green and white diamond pattern. The tables were covered with white cloths edged with embroidery. Waitresses bustled about, serving the late tea. The walls were covered with paintings of flowers, while artificial ones were draped along the tops.
“It’s pretty,” said Fanny. “At least she ’ad her last meal someplace pretty.”
She started to sniffle, and grabbed for a handkerchief from her handbag.
“She was so excited and ’appy, looking forward to this,” she said, crying in earnest now. “All she wanted was a decent bloke for a change, someone to take ’er away from it all. She said she was going to be set for life, and look ’ow it turned out.”
“Set for life how?” asked Gwen.
Fanny waved her handkerchief around in the air.
“She said she ’ad something coming to ’er that was going to change everything, and that she was going to find a good man and settle down somewhere. She ’ad a plan.”
“Something coming? Money?”
“I dunno. She never explained.”
Gwen looked inside the café again.
“She wasn’t killed in there,” she said. “The papers said she dined alone, then stood in front, waiting. Then she left—no one saw who with. They found her in some alley?”
“Over there,” said Fanny, pointing.
A narrow, dark, one-lane street peeled off of Middlesex. They ventured down it carefully.
“I read she was found on that side,” said Fanny, pointing to an opening past a pub in the middle of the block. “She ’adn’t gone in. The bloke must ’ave suggested they go for a pint. It wasn’t ’ard to get ’er to agree to a drink. But no one in the pub ever saw ’er.”
“Not too busy,” said Gwen, looking around. “It wouldn’t have been hard to get her alone there.”
“She probably thought ’e was going in for a quick bit o’ bliss,” snuffled Fanny. “I ’ope she ’ad ’er eyes closed before it ’appened. Oh, Lord, I shouldn’t ’ave come. It’s got me all weepy. I must look a fright.”
“Here, let me fix you up,” said Gwen. “I’m an expert on tears.”
They walked to Merle’s after. Iris and Elsie were already there. Iris waved to them merrily.
“Come celebrate!” Elsie called. “Mary’s got a new job!”
“What?” exclaimed Gwen.
“Keep it down, silly,” laughed Iris. “Yes, I passed the—interview.”
“Interview!” snickered Elsie.
“What kind of a job?” asked Gwen as Fanny headed to the bar.
Iris looked her straight in the eye with her most serious look.
“I can’t tell you,” she said, then she and Elsie burst into laughter.
“Remind me to box your ears later,” said Gwen.
Fanny returned with two pints and handed one to Gwen.
“Next round’s on me,” said Gwen. “What’s the toast?”
“To nylons, and all that they bring us!” shouted Iris.
“To nylons!” chorused the others.
There was more drinking and toasting, but no more useful information to be gleaned. Iris and Gwen begged off from making a night of it, seeking to escape before Archie’s crew showed up.
Gwen was slightly wobbly as they left. Iris, who had seemed for all purposes several sheets to the wind, reverted to a state of sobriety.
“How do you do that?” marveled Gwen.
“I wasn’t drinking that much,” said Iris. “Useful technique, appearing drunk. But I didn’t get much out of Elsie. Any luck with Fanny?”
“Tillie didn’t seem to have any significant lover prior to Rog, so there goes that theory. She did hint at coming into something in the near future.”
“Did she? I wonder what.”
“Fanny didn’t know. Maybe Elsie would?”
“Maybe. She’s better at keeping things secret. She was there in the company of Archie and mates when I came into the clubhouse.”
“Surprise, surprise.”
“You sussed her out?”
“She’s the smart one in that group, especially with Tillie out of the picture. I have the sense that she’s deeper in with Archie than she lets on. She’s never seemed exactly broken up over Tillie’s demise.”
“I wonder how much work Tillie did for Archie. I’ll have to see what I can find out when I’m in more.”
“You haven’t told me what your new job is. And what Elsie’s part in it was.”
“Oh, the first test was transporting money. Elsie came along to throw some temptation my way. She was much too obvious a plant.”
“How much money?”
“I didn’t count, but several hundred pounds.”
“Good Lord! It’s too bad you’re such an honest spiv in training. We could have gone on holiday.”
“He gave me another pair of nylons in payment,” said Iris. “I think he fancies me. It’s too bad me and Rog are so much in love.”
“Oh, the tangled webs you weave,” said Gwen. “All right, let’s rule out past lovers for the moment. That puts us back into nefarious activities. Could Tillie be tied into this theft of—what were they again?”
“Plates for counterfeiting clothes coupons.”
“Yes. I can’t say that I am very knowledgeable about counterfeiting. Does that subject fall within the vast grey area of skills you cannot discuss?”
“No,” said Iris thoughtfully. “But I know a likely lad. We could visit him tomorrow morning. Meet me at the office and we’ll go from there.”
“Will do. Oh, your friend Miss Kemp telephoned. She needs to speak with you. I’m afraid that I let her know that I knew who she was. She sounded put off by that.”
“Oh, dear. I’ll have to patch that up. I was going to enlist your help in finding someone for her.”
“She’s our client?”
“It’s been an informal barter of services rather than a full contract.”
“Understood. She’s been very useful. Ah, here’s our train at last.”
Iris saw no suspicious cars tailing her, either from the government or the underworld. She treated herself to a chop at a restaurant on the next street, taking a table where she could keep her back against the wall and an eye on the entrance. She brushed off a would-be suitor with ease, and wondered where Andrew was at that moment.
It was different to enter her flat knowing that there was no possibility of him waiting for her. The silence of absence, of desertion, filled the small rooms until she felt she was drowning in it.
She was going to have to put some serious thought into what she was doing with her life. She was upset over Gwen calling her out. Upset because everything she said was true. She wasn’t used to having a female friend who wasn’t in some manner or another competition. She wanted to tell her everything.
But telling her everything might drive her away.
She sighed, then remembered the call from Jessie. She picked up her telephone and dialed her number.
“It’s Iris,” she said. “Are you free to chat?”
“Another Friday night at home, no thanks to you,” said Jessie.
“I’m working on it,” said Iris. “In fact, I’m bringing in the big guns.”
“What are they?”
“My partner, Gwen. She has a gift.”
“Yes, I wanted to talk to you about her. She wasn’t supposed to know my name.”
“Sorry. We’ve stumbled into a situation despite ourselves, and now it’s all hands on deck.”
“That’s the other thing. Do you know how much trouble you could have got me in, pulling the file on a dead girl?”
“That’s hardly fair, Jessie. She wasn’t dead at the time.”
“And that makes it better? It’s a good thing I didn’t actually sign them out. I would have been up to my neck.”
“Apologies, apologies,” said Iris. “We’ll try not to refer any more future murder victims.”
“I suppose that sort of thing is hard to predict. Although, it’s not like your girl was completely on the straight and narrow.”
“Was there anything besides that one arrest?”
“Some reference to her being in with the Wapping Wall gang. Archie Spelling’s boys. You’ve heard of them?”
“I’ve met them. We’re all chums, now.”
“You have been busy. Be careful with that lot, all right?”
“I will,” promised Iris. “Oh, one more thing to satisfy my curiosity. Do you remember who arrested Miss La Salle in that case?”
“Oh, Lord, I’d have to look it up. The name was an odd one—reminded me of a fish.”
“Pilcher?”
“Pilcher! Like pilchard! Yes, that was it.”
“I thought it might be. All right, keep mum about our special relationship. Good things will come of it.”
“Will do. How’s your bloke?”
“Don’t have a bloke at the moment.”
“You should put your friend on the case.”
“Too much responsibility,” laughed Iris. “I’m hard to please. Good night, dear.”
“You are about to meet someone from my mysterious recent past,” said Iris as she and Gwen walked east from Mayfair the following morning.
“What’s off-limits when we talk?”
“Nothing about his area of expertise is off-limits,” said Iris. “Anything about how he and I came to know each other or what we did together is.”
“Not an ex-lover,” said Gwen, glancing at her.
“Not this time,” said Iris. “Not all of them are, no matter what you think of me.”
They passed through the theatre district, taking a right from Earlham Street.
“There we are,” said Iris.
J. B. SMALLEY & SONS, FINE PRINTS AND LITHOGRAPHS read the sign. The shop was painted in a surprisingly cheerful brown. The windows displayed prints of a variety of subjects and age. The two women stopped for a moment to look in the windows.
“These are beyond my budget,” said Iris. “And we haven’t even got to the Dorés inside. Shall we?”
Gwen was fixated on an engraving of the Roman Forum.
“Don’t start,” said Iris. “Work to do.”
“Right,” said Gwen. “Let’s go in.”
The interior was a gallery, a veritable maze of partitions to maximize the number of prints that could be displayed. A tall man in a cutaway suit that would not have been out of place in Ascot Downs during the previous century was discoursing in plummy tones to a pair of matrons whose handbags no doubt were sagging under the weight of the money they intended to spend there.
“That’s J. B. Smalley,” whispered Iris. “He’s occupied at the moment. We may as well browse while we’re waiting. Don’t get caught by anything that will trigger the weepies if you can help it.”
“That section of animal prints should keep me dry-eyed,” said Gwen. “Come fetch me when he’s ready.”
She sauntered over to a section devoted to naturalists’ depictions of creatures as they saw them or hoped they would be, going back to Linneaus. One in particular caught her eye and brought a happy smile to her face. She went over to look at it more closely.
It was a narwhal, shown improbably on top of a black rock, posing with its tail up while the ocean waves crashed dramatically about it. It had irregularly shaped spots over its plump body, and the signature tusk had a scrolled pattern along its length.
“From the Brehms Tierleben, First Edition,” came the plummy voice from behind her. “Are you familiar with it?”
“I am not,” said Gwen turning to face him. “But I know a narwhal when I see one.”
“How so, if I may ask?”
“I have a budding narwhal enthusiast at home,” she said. “He became quite taken with the one he saw at the British Museum. Now, he writes adventures about it. What is the Brehms Tierleben?”
“A zoological encyclopedia, initially published in six volumes in Germany in the 1860s,” said Mister Smalley. “The illustrations were under Robert Kretschmer’s supervision, but I don’t think that he himself executed the narwhal. My personal opinion, only. There is no way of verifying it. This was created from the original plates, however. It’s a peculiar creature, but somehow endearing.”
“It is lovely in its own way, isn’t it?” agreed Gwen. She glanced at the price, then sighed. “A little much for an illustration for a boy’s playroom, I’m afraid.”
“I do have a reproduction that I could offer for substantially less,” said Smalley. “I happen to be a fellow narwhal enthusiast. I would be delighted to encourage your son in his pursuits. Would you care to come in back?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Gwen. “May my friend join us?”
“Miss Sparks is always welcome anywhere in my establishment,” he said. “James Smalley, at your service.”
“Gwendolyn Bainbridge,” she returned.
“Gracious, Jimmy,” said Iris, who had watched the entire exchange. “You’ve got the act down perfectly. I’m impressed.”
Smalley turned to her, put his finger to his lips, and smiled slightly.
“This way, ladies,” he said, leading them to a door at the rear.
They found themselves in a large storage area, with shelves holding cardboard tubes labeled with their contents. There was a desk and a few chairs at one side.
“Great to see you, Sparks,” said Smalley, grinning at her.
The tones were less plummy, noticed Gwen.
“Great to see you as well,” said Iris. “Gwen, meet Jimmy the Scribe, one of the best forgers in London.”
“Until I was forcibly retired,” he added quickly. “I became a cloistered guest of the Crown for a few years until my services came back in demand.”
“Jimmy forged documents for a lot of brave men and women who infiltrated Europe during the war,” said Iris. “He’s the best.”
“I was one of many,” he said modestly. “I was happy to put my skills to use for my country.”
“Plus it got you sprung,” said Iris.
“Full pardon, permission to take on a new life, so long as I keep on the up and up.”
“This all looks quite—legitimate,” said Gwen.
“A life is much easier to forge than German transit papers,” he said. “I became a forger because I was a better copyist than I was an artist, but that never stopped me from wanting to live amongst these marvels. And lo and behold, I’m making better money running this shop!”
“Think how your life would have been different if you had realized that at the beginning,” said Iris.
“I do,” said Smalley. “But it keeps leading to the point that if I hadn’t done what I did as well as I did, then I couldn’t have helped the war effort as much. I would have made a terrible soldier. Now, to the topic, Sparks. You called saying that you wanted to pick my brain. What scheme are you planning?”
“Not my scheme, someone else’s,” said Iris. “We think there’s a large forgery operation afoot.”
“Making what?”
“Clothing coupons.”
“Oh, that’s a good target,” said Smalley, leaning back in his chair and linking his hands behind his head. “Homemade plates?”
“The real thing. Purloined, then purloined again.”
“Give me the rundown.”
Iris summarized the details while Jimmy listened, rocking back and forth.
“I love it,” he said when she finished. “No artistry in making coupons, but I appreciate the sheer scale of the enterprise. So, what do you need to know from me?”
“What do they need, where do they get it, how would we go about finding the same things and tracing it to them?”
“Is that all?” laughed Smalley. “Well, you need a printer, preferably somewhere out of the way so people won’t notice it. You need ink of the right type, and you need paper, matching colour and stock. Plus people to run it, distribution, and so forth.”
“There’s a paper shortage,” said Gwen. “There’s rationing. How would they get enough?”
“Oh, there’s black markets for everything,” said Smalley. “The trick is getting the right kind of paper—a lot of the fake coupons I’ve seen are too thick, or the paper’s too smooth.”
“You’ve seen them?”
“I’ve been called in to consult for the government occasionally,” said Smalley. “Part of the conditions of my freedom.”
“Let’s say that I wanted to acquire a large amount of paper without going through proper channels,” said Gwen. “Where would I find it?”
“Well, I would go to people who are in the business of producing things on paper that are not so legal.”
“For example?”
“Racetrack touts—tote tickets use a lot, and that’s something where you cut things down to small sizes, so they’d be a good fit for making coupons.”
“That’s a thought,” said Iris.
“And—I assume that neither of you is so delicate as to faint at this next suggestion?”
“We’ll do our level best,” promised Iris.
“Pornography,” said Smalley. “Always around, always available. Someone keeps printing it because people keep buying it. Hell, I’ve got a few things here for special collectors that I would blush to show you, except the detail of the wood-cuts is exquisite.”
“We’ll pass, thank you,” said Iris. “So, racetrack touts and pornographers should be our next direction. Sounds marvelous. Thanks, Jimmy. Grand as always.”
“Likewise,” said Smalley, standing. “One more moment.”
He rummaged through a shelf, then brought a print over to the desk and unrolled it.
“It’s the narwhal!” exclaimed Gwen. “I thought you were just making an excuse for us to come in back.”
“Not an original, but a good reproduction,” said Smalley. “I could let you have it at a very reasonable price.”
“It’s very good,” said Gwen. “Yes, thank you. I’ll take it.”
Iris looked at it carefully.
“This is one of yours, isn’t it, Jimmy?”
“It is.”
“But you’re no longer in the forgery business.”
“A reproduction, acknowledged as such, is not a forgery,” said Smalley. “I am still an artist. And I do love narwhals.”
“Who doesn’t? Gwen, I’ll wait for you at the front.”
Gwen joined her a short time later, the narwhal rolled and safely stored in a cardboard tube.
“That was useful,” said Iris as they strolled back to the office. “Now, all we have to do is dive into the worlds of racing and pornography without losing our footing or our clothing. There can’t be too many places where—”
“Iris,” said Gwen thoughtfully. “I think I know where it is.”