Gwen walked into the office just in time to see a dart whizzing by to her right. She stopped. Iris was standing behind her desk, another dart in her hand.
“I do hope that there is a dartboard on the other side of this door,” said Gwen. “Otherwise, our security deposit is down the drain. Could you cease fire for a moment?”
Iris nodded, and Gwen peered around the door.
“Ah, there is a dartboard there,” she said. “I am glad, and I am puzzled. Has that always been there and am I just noticing it now?”
“Get out of the way,” said Iris.
Gwen moved quickly towards her side of the room as Iris hurled the dart. It landed just outside the outer bull’s eye.
“Good shot,” said Gwen. “Is this about yesterday?”
Iris walked over to retrieve the darts without answering.
“I see,” said Gwen. “If it would help, I’ll stand you to a game or two. I won’t be responsible for the condition of the wall.”
“It’s not about yesterday,” said Iris. “Please stop talking. I need that triple twenty.”
She threw a dart.
There was a copy of the Times in the wastebasket, violently crumpled. Gwen fished it out and smoothed it across her desk.
“What’s in here that could have set you off, I wonder?”
“Stop it.”
“I am not going to sit here quietly while you’re in this insufferable and possibly dangerous state,” said Gwen, perusing the newspaper. “Let’s see. Anglo-Egyptian negotiations, no, it wouldn’t be that. The Americans have exploded another atomic bomb in New Mexico. Do you have particular feelings about the bomb? Or New Mexico, for that matter?”
A dart struck in the twenty, just above the triple ring.
“Apparently not,” continued Gwen. “American wheat shipment sent to Germany to feed coal miners. A pity, we could have used that here. Trial of Nazi commander for—”
Iris drew her knife from her handbag, flicked it open, and threw it into the dead center of the dartboard, where it stuck quivering.
“And bang goes the security deposit,” said Gwen. “Trial of Nazi commander for ruthless execution of eight British WAAF and FANY officers—women. They killed women. How awful.”
“They knew what they were getting into,” said Iris, staring across the room at her knife. “We all did.”
“You were one of them.”
“I was supposed to be,” said Iris, sitting in her chair. “I trained with them. Special Operations. I could be prosecuted just for saying that out loud.”
“You escaped. You survived.”
“I never went!” shouted Iris, pounding her desk with both fists. “I broke my stupid ankle during parachute training. It was a night jump, and the chute wouldn’t open properly. I was falling through the dark, trying to get it free, screaming my bloody head off, and it finally did but it slipped air and I came in too hard.”
“That wasn’t your fault,” said Gwen.
“It was my fault that I couldn’t bring myself to get back in an airplane after it healed,” said Iris. “I panicked every single time. They ruled me unfit for overseas operations. I shifted to running teams from London, got loaned out for counterintelligence, but I didn’t go into battle with my friends. Marvelous women, every single one of them. Brave, intelligent, fierce women. I should have been with them. I felt like I had been given the white feather. Everyone was very understanding about it, and that made it worse. And then I found out what happened to them. They were betrayed and executed. Brutally.”
Gwen said nothing, but reached out to take her hand. Iris pulled it away.
“We used to have weekly dances,” she said. “We had clothes that looked like German-made clothes but were faked, right down to the labels and the stitching. We had to break them in so they wouldn’t look brand new, which would have been a dead giveaway. So we had dances, and they would put German records on the gramophone and we would have a jolly old time, chatting and flirting in German, changing partners, all those handsome boys, many of whom also died in the line of duty. Even with my ankle still throbbing, I would wear those clothes and go to those dances and play my part. Two of the women wore my size. I often wonder if they died wearing something I danced in.”
“Let’s close up the shop today,” said Gwen. “Let’s find a pub that serves liquor before noon and raise a few to your friends.”
“All I do nowadays when I think about them is drink,” said Iris. “Thank you, Gwen, but there is not enough liquor in the world right now.”
“Fine, throw all the darts you want to. Only there’s still Dickie Trower sitting in jail despite our best efforts. We need a new plan.”
“If our best efforts couldn’t save him, what makes you think our second-best will accomplish anything?”
“We can’t give up.”
“We can. We put our lives on the line, and for what? Three people in jail and the British public is safe from fake clothing coupons. Hooray and bully for us.”
She held a dart in each hand, then whipped them simultaneously at the board. One of them hit the thin metal ring separating the outer bull’s eye from the rest of the board and bounced off.
“Damn,” she grumbled, walking to retrieve it from the floor.
“Iris, think of something,” said Gwen. “You’re the strategist.”
“I’ve got nothing,” said Iris wearily. “I don’t know who else to question. Our covers with Tillie’s friends are blown to pieces, so we can’t go back. I have no more ideas, Gwen. I’m done.”
“Well, I don’t intend to stay here doing nothing,” said Gwen, picking up her handbag.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet. But in the meantime, I’m going to visit Dickie Trower. I haven’t seen him since last Tuesday. I want to tell him that we’re still in the hunt.”
“What’s the use? You’re only going to give him hope.”
“Maybe that’s all I can give him,” said Gwen. “But at least I can give him that. Would you care to come with me?”
“No,” said Iris. “I am not capable of providing comfort to anyone right now.”
“Fine,” said Gwen. “I will see you later. Mind the store, and try to maintain civility when you answer the telephone.”
She walked out.
“Good people,” muttered Iris. “Damn them all.”
This time, Gwen sat on the lower level of the Brixton tram, the scenery passing by unnoticed. Ronald Colman appeared briefly in her thoughts, and she shooed him away. Des showed up next, and she lingered on him, allowing herself a momentary wallow of fantasy and regret.
Her recounting of the weekend adventures to Lady Carolyne the previous evening had failed to impress. She came away wondering if her mother-in-law was disappointed that Gwen hadn’t been killed during the endeavour. She found Little Ronnie and presented him with the reproduction of the narwhal, which she had had framed. He was delighted, and refused to let them hang it in his room, preferring to have it propped up at baseboard level in his playroom so that he could copy it properly with his crayons while sitting on the floor.
She got off at the stop by Jebb Avenue without needing any reminder from the conductress, and walked to the prison entrance with the other women as if she had been visiting there all of her life.
She signed in and waited patiently in the queue until it was her turn. She didn’t chat with the others. The three that had been there the first time were not here today, and her silence and downcast expression were respected as being normal and appropriate.
Of all the places to fit in, she thought.
Her name was called, and she followed the officer to the visiting chamber.
The door on the prisoner’s side opened, and Dickie Trower came in. His eyes lit up when he saw her.
“Mrs. Bainbridge, thank goodness,” he said. “Tell me that you’ve brought good news.”
He had got thinner in the six tumultuous days since she last saw him, and there was a dull bruise on his jawline that made her shudder in sympathy. He saw it and grimaced momentarily.
“One of the guards,” he said. “I didn’t obey an order quickly enough to his satisfaction. And I thought the Army was rough.”
“I’m so sorry, Mister Trower,” said Gwen. “I hate that you are in here. I wish that I had brought good news. We have put a great deal of effort into your case. We had what we thought was a promising lead, but unfortunately…”
“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me everything.”
She recounted their efforts on his behalf, starting to cry when she reached their rejection by Parham.
“I’m sorry, Mister Trower, I truly am,” she said when she had finished.
“Please, don’t cry, Mrs. Bainbridge,” he said. “You’ll get me going, and I’m trying to be strong in your presence. I cannot believe that the two of you did all of this, that you risked your lives for me. You barely know me.”
“We couldn’t sit idly by,” said Gwen. “We haven’t given up. We’ll find something. There has to be something we’ve missed.”
“Well, until then, I will cope the best that I can. I am grateful for your visit. If it wasn’t for you and Mrs. Dowd, I wouldn’t have seen anyone at all.”
“Oh, did she come by? That was kind of her.”
“She brought me biscuits, and chatted about Herbert. She thinks he misses me.”
“I’m sure that he does.”
“He must be so lonely, sitting in that bowl in my empty room,” sighed Trower. “I hate the thought of him having no one to talk to him. Mrs. Dowd means well, but she has that house to keep up, and I doubt that she does any more than feed him, not that that isn’t a considerable task.”
“I’m certain that the two of you will be reunited,” said Gwen.
Mister Trower looked thoughtful, then smiled at her.
“Mrs. Bainbridge, you have a son, I believe.”
“Yes. Ronnie. He’s six.”
“May I give Herbert to him? In gratitude for all that you’ve done, and so that Herbert will have someone who will pay him some attention.”
“Oh, Mister Trower, I couldn’t possibly accept.”
“No, I insist. It will be a good home for him, and I bet that your son will take to him as I did. It would do my heart mighty good to know that Herbert is bringing happiness to someone.”
“How could I say no?” smiled Gwen. “Very well. Herbert shall come home with me.”
“I will write you a note straight away,” said Trower. “I’ll send it out to the waiting room. Thank you, Mrs. Bainbridge. Thank you and Miss Sparks for everything.”
“Good-bye, Mister Trower,” said Gwen. “I will come back and visit you again.”
Sally poked his head through the doorway, then ducked back quickly as he saw Iris, armed and ready.
“Relax,” said Iris. “I wasn’t aiming at you.”
“I’m waiting for the ‘all clear’ to sound,” he called from the hall. “Is it safe?”
“Stop being stupid and come in.”
His hand came into view, waving a white handkerchief. Then he stepped cautiously into the office.
“A dartboard,” he observed. “How civilized. Put in a snooker table and a bar, and this place might have the makings of a real moneymaker. What made that big gash in the middle?”
She held up her knife.
“Do you get bonus points for that one?”
“What brings you here today, Sally?”
“I hadn’t heard from you, so I thought that I would check in to see if my secretarial skills were wanted,” he said, sitting across from her in Gwen’s chair. “Also, I saw the Times. How are you doing?”
“How do I look like I’m doing?”
“Like you are sublimating your urge to murder all of humanity.”
“Only half of it. Yes, I am sublimating. Barely. It’s brave of you to put yourself in my presence.”
“I have a small flask of Canadian whisky from which I derive my courage. Would you care for a nip?”
“The Canadians do not make proper whisky.”
“But at least they are making it. We won’t get any homegrown stuff until next year.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself. Where is Milady this morning?”
“Doing good works. Visiting a prisoner, then something involving loaves and fishes. She wasn’t clear about the details.”
“Now, there’s the solution to the food shortage. Thank God Jesus is an Englishman. So, she’s visiting Mister Trower?”
“Yes.”
“Poor sod. What’s next for him?”
“Trial. Conviction. Gallows.”
“Unless you—”
“No more unlesses.”
He looked at her closely. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, keeping hers focused on the dartboard.
“My dear Sparks,” he said. “If you don’t climb out of your hole and come up with a plan, you will lose the two best friends you have right now.”
“The only two, and I’m already down one,” she said bleakly. “Are you throwing in the towel as well?”
“You’re throwing it in on yourself. Well, I’m not sure if that’s possible, so let me rephrase. Remember the first time we saw each other after I came back from Italy?”
“Vaguely. I was awash in celebration.”
“You were trying to drink yourself to death. You told me that you’d rather make it look like that than a straight suicide for the sake of your parents.”
“I said that? I don’t remember.”
“I do,” said Sally. “I remember everything that you’ve ever said.”
“How sweet of you. I do remember waking in your bed, feeling absolutely wretched. And there you were on the sofa, feet dangling over the armrest. I assume nothing else happened.”
“You assume correctly. And then we talked.”
“We did.”
“All day.”
“Yes. You drove the black dog away. For a while.”
“It’s back?”
“It’s whimpering in the corner. I am fending it off with darts.”
Sally rolled forward in his chair, gripped her by both shoulders, and turned her to face him.
“I am not having that conversation again,” he said. “I am not a professional. I am only qualified to be your friend, and I haven’t been the best one because lately I have been so involved in my imaginary worlds that I’ve become neglectful of the real one. My time here as your Monster Friday while the two of you engage in feats of derring-do has chipped away at my walls, and for that, I’m grateful.”
“Let go of me.”
“No. Now, I don’t know what to do next, but Mrs. Bainbridge is bounding into the unknown without any guidance. You are needed, Sparks. You are wanted. I will be your sounding board, and will ask both pertinent and impertinent questions to goad you and guide you along, but start putting that brilliant noggin to use or I will abandon you for a less complicated woman who will adore my talent and think that my medals imply bravery.”
“Let go of me, or I will puncture you with a dart.”
He slid his hands from her shoulders to her wrists.
“Go ahead and try,” he said.
She looked down at her hands, then let the darts fall to the floor.
“Unfair using your superior strength,” she said.
“If I fought you in a fair fight, I’d lose,” he said. “If I release you, will you start thinking about this Trower problem?”
“Yes.”
“Very well,” he said, letting her go. “Now, think. Talk it out. Go back to the beginning. Unleash the unlesses.”
“Hypothesis Number One,” she said. “Dickie Trower killed Tillie La Salle. He corresponded with her, met her, stabbed her once through the heart in a nearby alley. Then he forged a letter—no, he would have had to do that first to provide himself with an alibi—”
“Technically, not an alibi,” said Sally.
“Whatever it’s called. Plausible evidence for his not meeting her. And having done all of this planning, he brought home the bloody knife and stuffed it under his mattress so the police could find it easily and feel better about themselves.”
“Very considerate of him,” commented Sally. “So, what are the problems with that hypothesis?”
“Trower isn’t the type,” said Iris. “Neither the murdering type nor the type who would make the obvious mistake of bringing back the bloody knife had he been the murdering type.”
“Why the latter?”
“He’s an accountant. Very well-organized.”
“Death by Double Entry,” said Sally dramatically. “A radio play in three acts. All right, come up with an alternate hypothesis.”
“Hypothesis Number Two. Someone else killed Tillie and framed Dickie Trower. We’ve been—”
She frowned thoughtfully.
“Go on,” urged Sally.
“We’ve been concentrating our efforts on finding someone who had a motive for killing Tillie,” she said. “Maybe we should be searching for someone who wanted to frame Dickie Trower.”
“Interesting idea. How would that fit the available evidence?”
“Well, it would account for the knife. But the hypothetical murderer would have had to know about the Right Sort, because he knew enough to come here, use our stationery, and my Bar-Let, and forge Gwen’s signature.”
“That’s a lot to know,” observed Sally.
“That’s why we suspected Roger Pilcher. He knew about us after following Tillie here.”
“But it wasn’t him.”
“No, damn the luck. So someone faked the letter, then mailed it to Trower—”
She stopped, got up, and started pacing furiously around the office.
“There’s something, there’s something,” she muttered.
Sally watched her, trying not to smile.
“The postmark!” she exclaimed.
“What about it?”
“The postmark on the letter to Trower was from the Croydon Post Office.”
“He lives in Croydon.”
“Yes, and the man who mailed that letter knew that. He wanted to make sure Trower got the letter in time to abandon the date.”
“He could have got Trower’s address from your files.”
“Possibly. Or he could also live in Croydon. So: knew Trower, knew he was coming here, had access to his room, knows Croydon—Sally!”
“I’m right here, Sparks.”
“He lives in a rented room in a private house. With a landlady!”
“Who could be reading his mail like a proper snoop,” said Sally.
“And therefore knows about us. Our address, how we correspond, the works!”
“Or could even be his confidante, never mind the mail. Sounds like someone to investigate. Do you need me to man the telephone while you go find Milady?”
“Would you?” said Iris, dashing back to her desk and crawling under it.
“What’s down there?” asked Sally.
“Petty cash,” she said, opening the strongbox. “I’m taking a cab to Brixton. I need to talk to Trower and intercept Gwen.”
She emerged, then threw herself on top of Sally and hugged him hard as the chair creaked in protest.
“Thank you, Sally,” she said. “I do love you, you know.”
She popped off him and flew out of the office. Sally watched her.
“I know,” he sighed.
Iris flew down the stairs and burst through the front door. There were no more photographers lurking about—she and Gwen were last week’s news. She ran to Oxford Street where the traffic was heavier and succeeded in flagging down a cab within a minute.
“Where to, Miss?” asked the cabby.
“Brixton Prison,” she said. “Quickly.”
He turned to look at her more closely, eyebrows raised.
“You did hear me say ‘quickly,’ didn’t you?” she snapped.
“I did, Miss,” he replied, activating the taximeter. “It’s just that most people are not in a hurry to go to jail.”
“Your tip depends on your speed.”
“And now I have incentive,” he said, stepping on the accelerator.
Gwen got off the tram on Combe Road and walked to Mrs. Dowd’s house, thinking about how one might transport a fish. She didn’t want to spend money on a cab unnecessarily, but the problem of carrying a fishbowl on a series of trams and buses was daunting.
She was still pondering it as she came up to the front door. She rang the bell. Mrs. Dowd opened it and looked at her in surprise.
“Mrs. Bainbridge, isn’t it?” she asked. “I’m sorry. I had no idea that you were coming.”
“I apologize, Mrs. Dowd,” said Gwen. “I am here once again to deal with our mutual friend, Herbert.”
“Herbert? What about him?”
“I was visiting with Mister Trower just now, and he kindly offered to give Herbert to my son until—well, for the immediate future. If it’s not too much trouble, I would like to take him off your hands. Here is a note from Mister Trower explaining everything.”
Mrs. Dowd took the note, then pulled a pair of reading glasses from her apron pocket and read it.
“Well, that certainly takes the cake,” she said. “He must be giving up hope if he’s abandoning Herbert. Poor lad.”
“His prospects don’t seem the best at the moment,” admitted Gwen. “We’ve been trying to help him.”
“You have? How?”
“We’ve been looking into his case,” said Gwen.
“Case? Are you a detective now?”
“No, no, no,” laughed Gwen. “Just someone going around asking questions and investigating matters on a strictly informal level.”
“Anything turn up?”
“Unfortunately, nothing that will help Mister Trower. Hence my visit and subsequent mission to bring Herbert to his new home.”
“Well, come in, then,” said Mrs. Dowd, holding open the door. “Funny thing is I’ll miss the little beggar. He turns out to be a good listener.”
“That’s good. My son is quite the talker. They should get along famously.”
They went upstairs to Trower’s room. Gwen looked at the fishbowl and thought about bumpy travels, sloshing water, and her dress. It all seemed a disaster waiting to happen.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a box of some kind that I could carry his bowl in, would you?” she asked.
“I might,” said Mrs. Dowd. “Tell you what. Come down to the parlour. I’ll make you a cup of tea and you can sit while I rummage about. I think there’s something in the cellar that might do the trick, but I want to clean it up a bit before you hold it against that nice outfit of yours.”
“That would be lovely, thank you.”
The cab pulled up at the prison gate. Iris paid the cabby with a tip that did not displease him and rushed in.
“Excuse me,” she said to the guard at the visitors’ queue. “I was supposed to meet my friend Mrs. Bainbridge here. Do you know if she’s already gone in?”
“Bainbridge, yes,” he said, consulting his list. “Visiting a Mister Trower.”
“Excellent. Would it be possible for me to join them?’
“Oh, no,” he said. “Only one visitor per prisoner per day.”
“Then could I wait for her here?”
“Well, she left, didn’t she?”
“She did?”
“She did.”
“Blast. Did she by any chance say where she was going next?”
“She thanked me and said good-bye, which was very polite of her.”
“Her manners are beyond compare,” agreed Iris. “But did she say where she was going?”
“Said she had to see a woman about a fish.”
“A fish?”
“Yes. It was a peculiar thing to say, which is why I remembered it.”
“Herbert,” whispered Iris. “Thank you, officer.”
She turned and ran back into the street.
Gwen decided to look at the photographs on the parlour walls while Mrs. Dowd occupied herself in the kitchen. There were some paintings hanging amidst the photographs that had escaped her notice the last time she had been here. She looked at them closely, and was surprised to see A. Dowd signed in tiny, carefully drawn black letters in the corner of each.
“Did you paint these?” she asked Mrs. Dowd when she returned with the tea tray.
“I did. You take milk, I believe?”
“Yes, thank you. These are quite good.”
“You’re very kind,” said Mrs. Dowd, beaming with pride. “Painting has been one of my retreats from the world. Mister Dowd used to say—well, there I go, bringing him into the conversation. I try not to speak of Mister Dowd anymore.”
“I understand entirely,” said Gwen, taking the cup Mrs. Dowd handed her. “I hope that you still paint. You’re very talented.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bainbridge. You drink up, and I’ll go find that box.”
Gwen sat on the sofa and sipped her tea, idly glancing at the photographs. For someone who justifiably disliked her ex-husband, Mrs. Dowd certainly kept a lot of their photographs together on display. Remembrances of happier times, Gwen supposed. She could see how happy they had once been. There they were on their wedding day, he in a tailcoat and top hat, she in a lovely gown, her hair bobbed like they did back in the twenties. There they were dancing at some beach resort—Brighton, by the look of it. And there was the first date at that café, sitting at a table, the floor with its distinctive tiles—
Gwen picked up that photograph and looked at it more closely. The floor had a diamond pattern in the tiles. The walls behind the smiling young couple were hung with paintings of flowers.
“I was so young,” said Mrs. Dowd, standing in the doorway, watching her. “Seventeen, can you believe it? He was so handsome. Such a gentleman. Or so I thought. Swept me quite off of my feet.”
“This is the Garland Café, isn’t it?” asked Gwen.
“Yes. Our first date.”
“This is where Mister Trower was supposed to meet Miss La Salle.”
“I know.”
“You suggested the café to him, didn’t you?”
“I did,” said Mrs. Dowd, sitting in one of the high-backed chairs opposite. “I was wondering if you had gone there. I was wondering if you’d recognize it from the photograph. It’s amazing what can be found right under your nose if you only look.”
“You let him make the date, then sent the letter canceling it so you could meet her there instead of him.”
“Yes.”
“Why? What had that poor girl ever done to you?”
“Oh, her? Nothing. Nothing at all. But I had to teach Dickie a lesson, didn’t I? All these years looking after him, listening to him, consoling him, keeping his room tidy and waiting even when he went off to war, nursing him after he was wounded—did you know he was wounded?”
“No,” said Gwen.
“I’m not old,” said Mrs. Dowd. “I am the best of housekeepers. I have memorized every magazine article that tells you how to make a proper home for your man, and I’ve done that for Dickie. I’ve been right under his nose, cooking special meals for him, letting him unburden his heart, his hopes, his dreams. And I have hopes, and dreams, and a heart of my own, don’t I?
“Of course,” said Gwen, eyeing the path through the clutter of furniture to the door.
She was tired, she thought stupidly. Why was she so tired? She yawned.
“Am I boring you?” asked Mrs. Dowd, smiling.
“Not at all, forgive me,” said Gwen.
“Oh, I like that. You’re being polite even now. Where was I? Ah, yes. Dickie. There I was, right under his nose the whole time, and I thought he would see me, finally see me, not the housekeeper, but the woman who adored him, who would do anything for him. Then I find out about him going to a marriage bureau. A marriage bureau! He was so lonely and desperate, and yet I was here! I was here!”
The last was shouted, momentarily jolting Gwen alert. Her teacup rattled in her hands. She put it down on the table.
“It must have been a shock,” she said.
The torpor settled into her more deeply.
“What did you put in my tea?” she asked suddenly, the horror rising in her.
“A little something to help you sleep,” said Mrs. Dowd.
“You drugged Dickie. The night you killed Tillie.”
“He was so upset about the letter canceling the date.”
“You forged the letter.”
“I did. Your custodian doesn’t take good care of keeping the spare keys safe. I typed the letter and signed your name. I had one of your letters to Dickie to copy, and I am, as you’ve said, a bit of an artist. Another quality he failed to notice.”
“Why? Why do it?”
“He was going to leave me,” said Mrs. Dowd. “After all I had done for him, after all the years I had waited. So, he had to be punished.”
“But me?” gasped Gwen, trying desperately to stay awake. She was having trouble keeping upright.
“He gave Herbert to you,” said Mrs. Dowd. “He clearly loves you. I can’t have that.”
“I have a child,” pleaded Gwen. “A little boy.”
“He’ll survive,” said Mrs. Dowd. “Children are remarkably resilient. Now, go to sleep, dearie. It’s better to die in your sleep. You’re a big girl, and it’s going to take me some time to chop you up. I don’t want to make a mess in here.”
The doorbell rang.
“I’m going to ignore that,” said Mrs. Dowd. “I don’t want to be interrupted.”
The doorbell rang again, followed by an insistent knocking.
“Fine,” said Mrs. Dowd in exasperation. “I’ll get rid of whoever it is. You sit tight. I’ll be right back.”
She walked into the hall. Gwen tried to cry out, but couldn’t summon the strength. She fell back against the sofa, her head colliding with her handbag.
Mrs. Dowd opened the door to see a short, perky brunette standing there, a notepad and pencil in her hands.
“How do you do?” chirped the woman. “My name is Eloise Teasley. I am conducting a survey for Mass-Observation about rationing and the response of the Ordinary British Housewife. Are you an Ordinary British Housewife by any chance, and if so, would you mind answering some questions?”
“I’m sorry, this is a bad time,” said Mrs. Dowd.
“Wait,” said the woman, holding up her hand. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Listen,” said the woman, cocking her head to the side.
Mrs. Dowd listened. A faint whistle emanated from the house.
“That sounded like a police whistle, didn’t it?” said the woman. “So curious. I have a friend, a very good friend, in fact, who has a police whistle. Her name is Gwendolyn Bainbridge.”
Mrs. Dowd flinched. The other woman smiled broadly.
“That was very noticeable,” she said. “You have to learn how not to react at the first mention of something bad if you’re going to be successful. That’s the first thing they taught us at Murder School. I’m going to hit you now.”
“What?” said Mrs. Dowd, starting to step back, but Iris’s notebook was already falling to the ground as she stepped forward to apply a very creditable uppercut to the other woman’s jaw.
Mrs. Dowd’s head snapped back. The momentum carried the rest of her toppling back into the hallway until she landed on the carpet with a muffled thud.
Iris stepped inside and viewed her victim. She knelt down and felt her wrist for a pulse, found one, and nodded in satisfaction. Then she slid the metal knuckles from her fingers, kissed the top of them lightly, and put them in her handbag.
“Iris?” came a feeble voice from the parlour.
“Be right with you, darling,” said Iris. “I need to secure the prisoner.”
She stripped Mrs. Dowd’s apron from her and quickly tied the woman’s hands behind her back. Then she ran into the parlour. Gwen lay on the sofa. She raised her hand in a feeble wave, the whistle still dangling in it.
“What did she give you?” said Iris, immediately.
“Some drug. So sleepy.”
“Stay with me, Gwen. I’m going to call an ambulance.”
“Iris. She killed Tillie.”
“I thought she might have. I’ll be right back.”
Gwen stared across at the photographs on the table. Mrs. and Mister Dowd stared back at her. Happiness in every picture.
They began to blur.
Iris came back, a glass in one hand, a large metal basin in the other. She put the basin on Gwen’s lap, then lifted her into a sitting position.
“The ambulance is on its way,” said Iris, holding the glass to Gwen’s lips. “Now, drink this.”
Gwen took a sip, then several more.
“What is it?” she gasped.
“Syrup of ipecac,” said Iris. “It will do until we get you to the hospital for the stomach pump.”
“Oh, no!”
“Things are about to become unpleasant, darling, so think of England and aim for the basin. There we go. Good girl.”
Several hours later, Iris sat on the edge of Gwen’s gurney in the emergency room at Mayday Road Hospital.
“Never had my stomach pumped before,” said Gwen. “One more for my diary. Yippee.”
“It isn’t fun,” agreed Iris.
“You’ve had it done?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Can you tell that story?”
“I can, but I don’t want to make you sick again.”
“I have nothing left,” said Gwen. “Iris—you saved my life.”
“It was the least I could do after I acted so beastly to you this morning.”
“Why were you there?”
“I figured out Mrs. Dowd was the most likely person to have done all this. Sally jolted me into that, bless him. I came with the intent of trying to intercept you, and maybe get her to touch something so I could get a fingerprint to pass along to that nice Mister Godfrey to compare to the unknown print on the letter to Dickie. But you did me one better in getting her to admit to the crime, clever girl.”
“So clever, I nearly died.”
“Nearly died is not dead. You lived to fight another day.”
“I don’t want to fight anymore.”
“Oh, yes. You do. You have to get your son back now that we’ve proved you right. Look, here come Parham and Detective Ex!”
Detective Superintendent Parham and Detective Sergeant Kinsey walked into the emergency room, hats in hand.
“Well?” asked Sparks.
“Mrs. Dowd confirmed your statements,” said Parham. “Her fingerprints did indeed match the one left on the letter. We will be charging her with the murder of Matilda La Salle. And dismissing the charges against Dickie Trower. The paperwork for his release will go through tomorrow morning.”
“Thank God,” whispered Mrs. Bainbridge.
“There’s more,” said Parham.
“More?”
“Pursuant to information that she provided us, we had a team dig up the gardens in the backyard,” said Kinsey. “We found the dismembered corpse of a man we believe to be her late husband, Phineas Dowd.”
“Good heavens,” said Sparks.
“Also,” he continued, clearing his throat.
“Yes?”
“Also—there was a dismembered cat.”
“She really hates being left by those she loves,” commented Mrs. Bainbridge.
“Ladies, Scotland Yard owes you a debt of gratitude,” said Parham. “If there is any way—”
“There is,” interrupted Sparks. “First, we want to be on either side of Dickie Trower when he walks out of Brixton Prison tomorrow morning.”
“I think that’s fitting,” said Parham. “What else?”
“You have a press office.”
“Of course.”
“We wish to be given full credit for clearing his name, specifically mentioning the Right Sort Marriage Bureau. We want this to go to every newspaper in the city so that a press conference may be held with us when we bring him out to freedom.”
“I see no reason why that can’t be done,” said Parham.
“Not every newspaper,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Don’t notify the Mirror.”
Parham smiled.
“It will be my distinct pleasure to leave them high and dry,” he said. “We’ll see you at Brixton in the morning, ladies. Superb work. By the way, Miss Sparks?”
“Yes, Detective Superintendent?”
“The pattern of bruises on Mrs. Dowd’s chin—I am not unfamiliar with them. What exactly did you hit her with?”
“Years of repression, Detective Superintendent,” said Sparks. “I won’t lie. It felt good.”