She opened her eyes to see him lying on his side looking at her, smiling when he saw she had come awake, that smile that still set her heart racing whenever she saw it. She started to say something, but he put a finger to her lips and she stopped. Then he opened his mouth and the blood came pouring out, pooling onto the bed, spilling over the sides, filling the room, drowning her …
Then she awoke for real, her heart pounding for all the wrong reasons, the twin bells on her alarm clock rattling away on the nightstand. She slapped at it repeatedly until it quieted.
Next to the clock was Ronnie’s photograph in its silver frame. He wore the dress uniform of the Royal Fusiliers, and he had the same smile that he had in her dream.
That uniform hung in his wardrobe by the wall. It wasn’t the one he wore when the mortar shell found him in Monte Cassino.
Two years, three months, and four days ago.
She hadn’t had that dream in a while. She had thought she was over them. Maybe she should take one of Doctor Milford’s powders.
But they interfered with her work, and she was a working woman, now.
So, up and at ’em, Gwennie, as Ronnie used to whisper when the baby started crying in the middle of the night.
The same baby, who was no longer a baby, who was running down the hallway, if footsteps were anything to go by. Towards her room.
She grabbed a tissue and quickly wiped away her tears. Then the door burst open and Little Ronnie leaped onto her bed into her embrace.
“Good morning, my darling,” she said, covering his face with rapid kisses until he nearly went into hysterics.
“Good morning, Mummy,” he chirped. “Agnes says we’re going to the museum today. Can you come?”
“It sounds wonderful,” said Gwen. “But Mummy has to go to work.”
“Oh.”
“You and Agnes will have a lovely time,” promised Gwen. “And tonight, you tell me everything you learn about dinosaurs and bears and narwhals.”
“What’s a narwhal?”
“A creature that swims in the oceans with a sword for a nose,” said Gwen.
“A nose-sword! Do they have duels?”
“Only in matters of honour,” said Gwen. “Now, you go have a proper breakfast. It’s a very big museum, and you need your strength.”
“Yes, Mummy!”
He jumped off the bed.
“Wait!” commanded Gwen.
He stopped and turned and looked at her.
Ronnie’s face. Sometimes, it was all she could do not to burst into tears when she saw him.
“Give Mummy a kiss,” said Gwen. “Then you may go.”
He jumped back onto the bed without hesitation and planted his lips on her cheek with a resounding smack. She hugged him, hugged him hard, then when he began to squirm, released him to the wild.
She washed and dressed, then went down the back steps to the breakfast room. Prudence, their cook, poked her head out of the kitchen.
“Good morning, Mrs. Bainbridge,” she said. “What would you like?”
“Just tea and toast,” she said, sitting in the seat by the window. “Is Lady Carolyne up?”
“Her Ladyship was at a dinner party last night,” said Prudence. “I don’t expect she’ll be on her feet much before eleven.”
“Thank you, Prudence.”
Gwen tried to restrain her relief at not having to make polite conversation with her mother-in-law.
She picked up the Guardian and scanned the headlines. Trouble in Greece. Iranians protesting Soviet troops remaining on their soil. Agitation in Palestine. And rationing, rationing, always rationing. Stern platitudes from Atlee that left no end in sight, and labour troubles in the States threatened to slow down the vital shipments of wheat.
Prudence returned with her own personal shipment of wheat in the form of two slices of toast. Gwen picked one up.
“Prudence, how much does this weigh, do you think?” she asked.
“Loaf’s a pound,” Prudence said promptly. “We generally slice twelve to the loaf, and that’s sixteen ounces to the pound, so about an ounce and what? A third, I suppose.”
“So if they reduce the daily amount to nine ounces, as it seems they will, I may still have my toast and tea?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Maybe we should thin our slices down.”
“I will have to ask Lady Carolyne before I do that, Miss. Unless you would like to.”
“I think that Lady Carolyne will take the suggestion more seriously if coming from you than from me,” said Gwen. “This is your bailiwick, after all. Don’t tell her you spoke with me about it.”
“Very good, Ma’am. Will there be anything else?”
“No. Thank you, Prudence.”
She finished her breakfast, made some last-second adjustments to her hair, then topped it with a pale blue beret. She picked up her handbag, then walked out of their house into Kensington.
The dream bothered her. It meant something was wrong. Not in any predictive manner—she knew better than that—but something unpleasant was simmering just below the surface of her psyche, waiting to erupt.
It was the shock of Ronnie’s death, they told her when she was strapped to that gurney in the sanitorium. The shock leaves traces behind. We can calm you down, they said. In time, they said. But there may be further episodes.
She was there for four months, and when she came out, Lord and Lady Bainbridge had assumed custody of her son, and it would take a court order to reverse that. The solicitor with whom she had consulted looked at the records of her stay in the sanitorium, then folded his hands and said, “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”
So she lived in the Bainbridge house, a very large, very well-appointed house indeed, and watched her son as he basked in the care of a governess and a tutor, and was allowed to interact with him as much as a mother might while having absolutely no maternal authority over his existence whatsoever. And she thought if she hadn’t been driven mad before, this velvet prison might very well do the trick on its own.
Which is why, when a chance encounter with the impetuous Iris Sparks led to this preposterous idea to start a marriage bureau, she had leapt at the opportunity.
They had met at a wedding, of course. One of Ronnie’s unit, and the groom and the best man, as well as many of the guests, wore the dress uniform of the Royal Fusiliers. A pavilion had been set up on the sward next to the church, and waiters stood with trays carrying glasses of champagne—real champagne, carried up from who knows what secret hoards. It was all she could do not to gulp hers down on the spot. She summoned her willpower, always tenuous in moments like these, and held the glass decorously in one gloved hand while the rest of the guests sauntered in. Tom Parkinson, the best man, stepped forward.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I have been with George through Dunkirk, Tunisia, and Italy. I have seen him charging through heavy machine-gun fire to take one hilltop after another from the Eye-Ties, and never have I seen him so nervous as I did this morning prior to walking down that aisle.”
There was an appreciative chuckle from the assemblage. He turned to the bride.
“And never have I seen him conquer anything more worth conquering,” he said. “Emily, whatever miracle brought the two of you together makes me believe that hope has been restored from the horrors we have been through. I wish you all the happiness that you deserve. Ladies and gentlemen—I give you Captain and Mrs. George Bascombe. To the bride and groom!”
“To the bride and groom!” echoed the crowd.
“To the bride and groom!” Gwen whispered softly.
She noticed a short, intense brunette woman looking at her. She was wearing a royal blue dress with padded shoulders, cut just above the knee. She saw Gwen returning her gaze, and walked over.
“Apologies,” said the woman. “I was admiring your gown. Absolutely smashing.”
“Thanks,” said Gwen. “Haven’t worn it in years. Slipped right into it without a struggle.”
“Lucky you,” said the woman. “I’ve been waiting for them to get on with the toast so we can start drinking properly. I’m trying to remember how many glasses of champagne I can have before I start speaking honestly.”
“Ah,” said Gwen. “I should stop at two, then. Three glasses usually do me in, and I have a few inches on you.”
“Pity,” said the woman. “I’m on the second now.”
“Still safely in the throes of mendacity?”
“I think so. I’m Iris, by the way. Iris Sparks.”
“Gwendolyn Bainbridge. Call me Gwen.”
“Nice to meet you. Bride or groom?”
“A bit of both, really,” said Gwen. “I’m the miracle.”
“Excuse me?”
“What Tom said—a miracle brought them together. It was I.”
“Well done, then,” said Iris, tapping her glass against Gwen’s in tribute. “I must ask, how did you see them as right for each other? Don’t get me wrong, I love Em, but she’s always been the horsey sort, riding to hounds in the country and all that. George is a brave lad, certainly, but he’s never been part of that world. His people are factory folks. Pots of money, but still, not the horsey sort at all. And the height difference—did you think she needed a jockey?”
“Are you sure that’s not your third?” asked Gwen.
“Yes, that was catty, wasn’t it? It’s been a while since I’ve had any decent champagne. I shouldn’t be behaving badly just yet. All right then. Why him for her and her for him?”
“I knew George before the war,” said Gwen. “He wanted to be an artist. Did you know that?”
“I never knew him before they got engaged.”
“Well, George has an eye for the beauty that lies underneath. Emily never saw herself as beautiful. She’s always been taller than everyone, and it made her feel awkward about herself. I thought George would see her, really see her, and that she had never been seen like that and would completely blossom under his gaze. Look at her now. Would you ever have said that she was a beauty before today?”
They turned and looked at the newlyweds who were feeding each other cake. Emily was laughing, and seemed to take in the sunlight and turn it into something even more golden.
“You’re right,” said Iris. “Never saw her like this. I don’t think anyone did. Besides you.”
“And now George,” said Gwen, starting to sniffle.
She grabbed at her handbag and pulled out a handkerchief.
“Damn,” she said, as the tears ran down her cheeks. “Weddings. Always get me.”
“Here, let me,” said Iris.
She took over the dabbing and effected some quick repairs to the makeup.
“Thanks,” said Gwen. “I must look a horror.”
“Your horror is better than most of my good days,” said Iris. “Do you know, I was at your wedding?”
“Were you? I don’t recognize your name.”
“June of ’39, wasn’t it? I was a guest of the official invitee. My first fiancé was some second cousin once removed of your husband. Ronnie Bainbridge is your—oh, no!”
She had set off the waterworks again.
“Oh, golly, I didn’t mean—damn, I’ve put my foot into it, haven’t I? When?”
“March, ’44,” said Gwen shortly, wiping her eyes. “Monte Cassino. He was in the Fusiliers with Tom and George.”
“I am so sorry,” said Iris. “I didn’t know. There have been so many.”
“It’s all right. His cousin didn’t tell you?”
“I lost track of him after we broke the engagement.”
“Yes, you did say ‘first fiancé,’ didn’t you?” said Gwen, the tears subsiding at last. She gave her eyes one last wipe, then tucked the handkerchief into her sleeve for quicker access.
“Right, the fiancé once removed,” said Iris.
“There was another?”
“One or two more,” said Iris. “Yet here I am, going stag. Or doe, I suppose.”
“No one in your life currently?” asked Gwen.
“No.”
Gwen looked at her keenly. “No,” she said finally. “I don’t think that’s true. Are you a prevaricator by nature, or is it a hobby?”
“Still on my second glass,” said Iris lightly. “Shall I have another and tell you the whole sordid tale?”
Gwen shook her head. “I’m sorry, it’s really none of my business,” she said. “I was sizing you up to see if I knew anyone suitable. I have this compulsion to match people up.”
“Have there been others besides George and Em?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve got a knack. My goodness, I’ve been rattling on about myself, haven’t I? Where do you know Emily from?”
“Boarding school and Cambridge,” said Iris. “Lost touch during the festivities of the last few years, but she reached out to me after the engagement.”
“Really? Why then?”
“Truth be told, she wanted me to do a little quiet digging into George’s background to make sure there were no family skeletons lying in wait.”
“Is that something you normally do?”
“Well, no, but I’m naturally nosy and I’ve got some helpful connections.”
“Friends in high places?”
“And low. The latter are sometimes more useful.”
“I take it there were no skeletons.”
“None. Not even the tiniest phalange. He’s one of the good ones.”
“I sensed that,” said Gwen.
“Then we have approval from both your ethereal plane and my jaundiced underworld,” said Iris.
“We make a good team,” said Gwen, holding up her glass.
“Good on us,” said Iris, tapping hers against it and finishing it. She glanced at the bar reluctantly. “I had better pretend I have some self-control. Shall we get some cake?”
“By all means,” said Gwen. “Would you care to meet up sometime after today?”
“I would be delighted,” said Iris, pulling a small notebook and pencil out of her handbag and handing it to her.
They exchanged numbers, then headed for the cake.
They had lunch two days later, and by the end of it had planned The Right Sort. Neither could remember who was the initiator of the idea, which is why they both knew it was perfect.
Gwen didn’t need the money, although it was nice to have. She needed the occupation to fill the empty hours that she once hoped would be spent with a loving husband raising their perfect child.
Children, if all had gone to plan, but the war had other plans, didn’t it?
Three months later, it was with these gloomy thoughts that she climbed the four flights to their office, to find that Iris had got there first and was busy scribbling away on her pad.
“Good mornin’, pardner,” she drawled as Gwen hung her beret on the coat-tree. “Nice of you to mosey in.”
“I am two minutes early,” she said. “Why are you a cowboy today?”
“I saw a Western last night,” said Iris. “It put me in the mood.”
“What are you working on?”
“I am indexing our clientele by height,” she said. “Our Miss La Salle was so insistent about it. It got me to thinking we should list everyone by physical characteristics as well as everything else.”
“I suppose so,” said Gwen, sitting behind her desk.
“You don’t sound enthusiastic,” said Iris.
“Just tired,” said Gwen. “I had a bad night.”
“What was the matter?”
“I dreamed about Ronnie,” said Gwen. “It was a nightmare. It felt like a premonition.”
“Of what?”
“If I knew, I’d do something to stop it,” said Gwen. “It’s all silly nonsense, I know.”
“My Auntie Elizabeth used to have dreams that she thought were prophecies,” said Iris thoughtfully. “She’d dream about a goat falling over a stile, or some such, and cry, ‘There will be calamity! Mark my words!’ And maybe the next week someone would bark their knee on a car door, and she would scream, ‘Aha!’”
“I fail to see the connection between the two,” said Gwen.
“Oh, there absolutely was none,” said Iris. “Which is why I’m saying…”
“Someone’s coming,” Gwen interrupted her.
“Prophecy?”
“No,” said Gwen. “I can hear them on the stairs.”
“Oh, yes,” said Iris, sitting up straight. “More than one. Curious.”
A man appeared in the doorway wearing a brown wool suit. He had brown hair, greying at the temples, matched by an equally grey mustache.
He was followed by a younger man dressed similarly. A good-looking fellow, Gwen thought, if he smiled. He certainly wasn’t smiling at the moment. The two of them were followed by a uniformed constable.
She glanced over at her partner, who was staring at the second man with an expression of bemused shock.
She knows him, realized Gwen. Well, best take the initiative.
She rose to her feet, letting her height impress them.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said in her politest tone. “I am Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge. How may we help you?”
“Then she’s Sparks?” asked the older man.
“She is,” said Sparks. “Who is he?”
“Detective Superintendent Philip Parham, Central Office, CID,” he said, flashing his identification card. “These are Detective Sergeant Kinsey and Police Constable Larkin.”
“I am so pleased to make your acquaintances,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “I take it that none of you are looking for a wife at the moment.”
“Hardly,” said Parham. “We’re here about a Matilda La Salle, better known as Tillie La Salle. I believe the two of you know the young lady.”
“A client of ours,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Has she made a complaint?”
“She has cause for one,” said Parham. “But I’m afraid she’s in no position to file it. She was murdered last night.”
“What?” exclaimed Mrs. Bainbridge.
“Oh, the poor girl,” said Sparks. “What happened? Do you know who did it?”
“Not yet,” said Parham. “We came here hoping to find out.”
“Here? Why here?” asked Mrs. Bainbridge.
“Because you may have introduced her to the man who killed her,” said Parham. “So we’ll have to have a look at your files.”
“Our files? Oh, no, that’s quite impossible. You shan’t,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. She stood in front of the file cabinet. She wondered for a moment if it would be more effective if she flung her arms to its sides to protect it further, but settled instead for folding them in front of her while assuming an expression of what she hoped was stern reprimand.
“Shan’t?” repeated Parham. “She actually said ‘shan’t,’ didn’t she, Kinsey?”
“She did, sir,” said Kinsey.
“Why shan’t we?” asked Parham.
“Our clientele come to us on matters of great personal intimacy,” she said. “We regard these matters as confidential. So you may neither willy nor nilly ransack these people’s lives.”
Parham stepped between the desks to face her, which had the additional effect of trapping her in the small space behind hers. The other two policemen watched.
“Constable Larkin,” he said.
“Sir,” replied Larkin.
“Mrs. Bainbridge has brought up confidentiality as a barrier to our investigation.”
“So it would seem, sir.”
“This seems an opportune moment to test your knowledge of confidentiality as it applies to police investigations. Are you up to the task?”
“I believe I am, sir.”
“Name the various forms of confidentiality.”
“Well, sir, there’s the confessional.”
“Very good, Constable. We may extend that to religion in general.”
“Yes, sir. That seems fair.”
“Now, do you observe any confessional here?”
“I do not, sir.”
“Any vestments on the ladies standing before us? Any of the more obvious accoutrements of holiness?”
“No, sir. But they might be one of those modern religions.”
“Constable, you rightfully rebuke me for my narrow view of the topic. Mrs. Bainbridge, are the two of you in fact running a religious order here?”
“I’m afraid not,” she replied. “Perhaps we should.”
“Then that’s out. Constable, what else?”
“Medical privilege, sir.”
“I see no indications of any such practices here, Constable,” said Parham. “Although one might make the case that they treat maladies of the heart.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” remarked Mrs. Bainbridge.
“Indeed I am, Mrs. Bainbridge. Next, Constable?”
“Er, I believe that attorneys and their clients have that special relationship.”
“They do, they do, Constable,” beamed Parham. “You are doing exceedingly well. And once again, the lack of a legal license on display would rule that out. Now, the final one.”
“It’s on the tip of my tongue,” he said. “But I cannot think of it.”
“Come, come, Constable. The most common one.”
“Ah, yes. The marriage bed, sir.”
“Precisely. And in fact, the least likely one, given the professed occupation of these ladies. If they were married to their clients, then it would be rotten luck for all the poor sods who come in here expecting matrimonial opportunity.”
“And bigamy, sir.”
“That, too, Constable.”
He turned back to Mrs. Bainbridge.
“Therefore, I must ask you to step aside, Mrs. Bainbridge,” he said, no longer in a bantering mode. “Any further obstruction will be regarded—”
“My father-in-law is Lord Harold Bainbridge,” she said. “He would take it very badly indeed—”
“Is Lord Harold Bainbridge affiliated with the London Metropolitan Police?” asked Parham.
“Well, no. But he’s tremendously influential.”
“Not with me, he’s not.”
“Excuse me,” said Iris. “Would you all mind keeping it down for a moment? I have our solicitor on the telephone.”
They turned to look at her sitting calmly at her desk, the receiver against her ear.
“Hello,” she said. “Is that you, Sir Geoffrey? It’s Sparks. Iris Sparks, yes. How are you? It’s good of you to come to our aid so quickly. We are having a bit of a contretemps with the local constabulary. No, no, I didn’t do anything. This time. They’re investigating a murder case, and they wish to poke through our files sans warrant. Yes, I suppose it does sound rather exciting from your end, but we are in the thick of it. What do you advise?”
She listened for a moment.
“That’s an excellent question,” she said. “I shall ask.”
She placed her hand over the receiver.
“Detective Superintendent, are Mrs. Bainbridge and I suspects?” she asked.
“Certainly not,” said Parham.
“Is he telling the truth, Mrs. Bainbridge?” asked Sparks.
“He is,” she said, studying his face so intently that he shivered for a moment.
“Sir Geoffrey? He says that we are not. He sounded very firm about it. I’m inclined to take him at his word. You do. Very good, Sir Geoffrey. Thank you for your time. Give my love to Samantha.”
She hung up, then nodded at Mrs. Bainbridge.
“He believes that a proper warrant would have been the better part of practice,” she said. “But in light of the urgency of the matter, he suggests that we assist them in their inquiries.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Detective Superintendent, how may we help you?”
Parham turned to the others and raised his eyebrows in exasperation. Kinsey shrugged and Larkin remained stone-faced. Parham turned back to Mrs. Bainbridge.
“We need to know the names and addresses of all the men you set her up with,” he said. “And view any correspondence.”
She turned, opened the top cabinet, and pulled out the file for Dickie Trower.
“She signed with us Monday a week ago,” she said, handing it to him. “This was our first match for her. But I doubt that he’s your man. There’s not a speck of evil or violence in him. I will vouch for him myself.”
“So will I,” said Sparks.
“Unfortunately, we must be the judges of that,” said Parham. “I must direct you to have no contact with him until we have completed our investigation. Thank you, ladies.”
He handed the file to PC Larkin, who wrote out a receipt and handed it to Gwen.
“One more thing,” said Parham. “You list yourselves as proprietors on your sign.”
“We do,” said Mrs. Bainbridge.
“A term reserved for men, I believe.”
“Proprietresses is so awkward to say,” said Sparks.
“And proprietrix sounds vaguely—illicit, don’t you think?” asked Mrs. Bainbridge.
Kinsey, standing behind Parham, smiled briefly.
“Well, I don’t like it,” said Parham.
“We shall endeavour to carry on under the weight of your disapproval,” said Mrs. Bainbridge, humbly casting her eyes downwards. “Good day, gentlemen. Good hunting.”
“Detective Superintendent,” said Sparks. “Might I have a word with the Detective Sergeant for a moment?”
Parham glanced at Kinsey, who shrugged noncommittally. “Be quick about it,” he said, and he and the constable left.
Iris looked at Kinsey for a long moment. He stood there, expressionless.
Smooth man, thought Gwen. And he is choking on his anger under that smooth demeanour.
“Hello, Mike,” said Iris.
“Sparks,” he returned.
Gwen sat down quietly and watched.
“I never thought I’d run into you in your professional capacity,” said Iris.
“I never thought I’d run into you at all,” he said. “Complete coincidence, or the vicissitudes of Fate. Our squad was up on the rota. How long have you been at this?”
“Three months.”
“Doing well, is it?”
“Tolerably well.”
“Hmph,” he said, looking around. “The irony of you brokering marriages does not escape me.”
“I knew you were going to say something along those lines,” she said. “Speaking of which, I hear congratulations are in order.”
“You know,” he said warily.
“Beryl Stansfield.”
“You can leave her name out of this and all future conversations,” he snapped. “I will not have you—”
“I was going to say well done,” she said softly. “If I had been given the task of finding you the best possible match, Beryl would have been at the top of the list.”
“Oh,” he said, more confused than mollified. “Well. Thanks, then. Better than the last one, certainly.”
“She certainly is,” agreed Iris.
“Is that it?”
“That’s it,” said Iris. “I am glad to see you doing so well. I mean that.”
“I’d best be off,” he said, stepping to the doorway.
“Mike?”
“What, Sparks?” he said.
“How was Miss La Salle killed?”
“Stabbed,” he said. “Once through the heart. It was neatly done.”
“Stabbed through the heart,” she repeated.
“Yes,” he said. “Which is why I disagree with the Detective Superintendent about ruling you out as a suspect.”
Iris smiled at him, a hard, brittle smile that made him shrink a little.
“Go catch your murderer, Mike,” she said. “And don’t come back here until you’ve learned better manners, or I’ll tell your mother that you’ve been bothering innocent girls.”
“I’ll give Mrs. Bainbridge the benefit of the doubt,” he said. “But you, sweetheart, are no innocent.”
He turned and walked out.
Gwen looked at Iris, who was still staring at the vacated doorway.
“And that was—” began Gwen.
“Fiancé Number Two,” said Iris.
“The One Who Got Away.”
“Something like that,” said Iris, sitting back down.
“He doesn’t like you.”
“Not without reason,” said Iris.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Can’t,” said Iris. “War stories.”
“Which you will never tell.”
“Someday, when we’re old,” said Iris. “And probably not even then.”
“What did you think of Parham?”
“Not my type,” said Iris. “Likes to show off to the subordinates and bully women. Didn’t strike me as a man with much real imagination.”
“He seems like someone who forms a theory first, and then goes looking for facts to fit it,” observed Gwen.
“Mike, on the other hand, has an imagination,” said Iris. “Too much of one, as I recall.”
“Iris,” said Gwen. “Tell me this isn’t our fault. Promise me that we are not in any way, shape, or form responsible for that poor girl’s death.”
“How would we be?”
“If Dickie Trower did it, and we introduced them—”
“He’s a false trail,” said Iris. “We both know he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s just the first lead and the easiest one. They’ll rule him out by tomorrow morning, mark my words.”
“But if we’re wrong—”
“We aren’t.”
“How can you be so certain? How much do we truly know about people after just one interview?”
“More than most, dear,” replied Iris. “I did follow up with some informal vetting when we met him, and he came through with flying colours. More important, you thought him a decent chap, and I have absolute faith in your perceptions.”
“There’s always a first time,” said Gwen. “Damn. What if this was what my dream was about?”
“Piffle. In any case, there is nothing we can do, so let’s see what their investigation turns up.”
It only proved to be a matter of hours. Both ladies looked up as a clatter of footsteps approached from the stairwell. Then Kinsey, Larkin, and a third man burst through the doorway.
“Hands off that typewriter,” commanded Kinsey, pointing at Sparks who froze, fingers poised over the keys.
“It’s the Drudgery Police, Gwen,” she said out the side of her mouth. “We’re done for!”
“Thank goodness you got here in time, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “We were in danger of actually getting some work done today.”
“Move away from the desk, Sparks,” said Kinsey.
“What on earth for?” exclaimed Sparks.
“We need to fingerprint your machine. Godfrey, take Miss Sparks’s exemplars.”
“You will do nothing of the kind!” she protested as the third man opened a leather-bound box and removed a printed form and an ink pad. “Would you mind explaining this?”
“We have arrested Richard Trower for the murder of Matilda La Salle,” said Kinsey.
“I don’t believe it,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Has he confessed?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” said Kinsey.
“That means no,” said Sparks. “Upon what evidence have you charged him?”
“We found a bloody knife under his mattress,” said Kinsey.
“And have you—I don’t know what the proper terms are,” said Mrs. Bainbridge.
“Matched it to her blood type,” said Sparks.
“Our initial tests were positive,” said Kinsey.
“You still haven’t said what this has to do with my poor Bar-Let,” said Sparks. “I will vouch for her. She’s been to Cambridge, served valiantly during the war, and has done yeoman’s work—”
“Yeowoman’s work,” corrected Mrs. Bainbridge.
“Yeowoman’s work here. Plus, she can’t walk. It’s a tragic story.”
“You promised us complete co-operation in this matter,” Kinsey pointed out.
“We were told that we weren’t suspects,” said Mrs. Bainbridge.
“There’s another piece of evidence,” said Kinsey. “Godfrey?”
“Yes, sir,” said the third man.
He took a small jar of white powder from his kit.
“You’ve been typing today?” he asked Sparks.
“Obviously,” she replied.
“Won’t bother with the keys, then,” he said.
He sprinkled the powder liberally on the sides and back of the typewriter, then blew off the excess with a small, rubber bulb. Dozens of prints, smeared and overlapping, covered the surface.
“I really ought to clean her once in a while,” sighed Sparks. “Never occurred to me. Sorry, old girl.”
Godfrey pulled out a camera and photographed each side.
“Right,” he said, sliding the ink pad over to Sparks. “Hold out your right hand first.”
He took each finger, rolled it in the ink, then onto the rectangles designated for each digit.
“You’re quite gentle with a lady’s hands,” observed Sparks. “You could take a few lessons from him, Mike.”
“As long as you’re co-operative, I’m gentle,” said Godfrey, repeating the process with her left. “I’ve broken a finger or two in my time with less co-operative people.”
Sparks held up her blackened fingertips for Mrs. Bainbridge’s inspection.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“That colour doesn’t go with your outfit,” said Mrs. Bainbridge.
“Now, Mike, what is this all about?” asked Sparks. “What is this evidence?”
“Your Mister Trower claimed he never had his meeting with the late Miss La Salle,” said Kinsey. “He had arranged it, but then he received a letter saying it was canceled.”
“A letter? Who from?” asked Mrs. Bainbridge.
Kinsey gestured to Larkin, who removed a manila folder from an attaché case he was carrying. He opened it on the desk. Inside were a sheet of stationery and an opened envelope.
“That’s our letterhead,” said Sparks, peering at them.
“Mrs. Bainbridge, is this your signature?” asked Kinsey.
She looked at it closely.
“It is a close facsimile,” she said. “But it isn’t mine.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because I never signed that letter. I’ve never signed any typed letter. I’ve never used that wretched machine.”
“Now, now,” said Sparks. “Don’t be mean to my Bar-Let. But she’s correct, Mike. Anything from me is typed, because it’s more businesslike, and my handwriting is atrocious, as you well recall.”
“I do,” said Kinsey. “So were some of the sentiments expressed.”
“Mrs. Bainbridge, on the other hand, has exquisite penmanship, the mark of her superior breeding and upbringing.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “So, every letter leaving my desk is hand-written. That letter did not come from either one of us.”
“But the stationery did,” said Kinsey.
“Stolen, perhaps,” said Sparks.
“Would you mind providing a typed letter for comparison?” asked Kinsey.
Sparks looked at the half-completed letter in the Bar-Let, sighed, then unscrolled it.
“I’ll have to do it fresh,” she grumbled. “I can never line them up properly once they’re removed.”
“You’re assisting Scotland Yard in a murder investigation,” Kinsey reminded her.
“Yes, yes, I know,” she said, rolling a fresh sheet in. “You want ‘A quick brown fox?’”
“All the letters, capital and small,” he said.
She typed them out rapidly, then whipped out the sheet and handed it to him. He placed it next to the one in the folder.
“Mister Godfrey, if you wouldn’t mind,” said Kinsey.
Godfrey reached into his case and produced a magnifying class.
“I say, Holmes,” murmured Mrs. Bainbridge.
The technician pored over the newly typed sheet, then over the letter.
“I would say they both came from the same machine, sir,” he said.
“May I?” asked Sparks, holding out her hand.
Godfrey looked at Kinsey, who nodded. He handed the magnifying glass to Sparks, who looked at the letter in the folder.
“The nick in the capital R; the smudge in the lower-case e, that matches,” she said. “And—yes!—the wobble in the w. It’s a fair cop. My Bar-Let is the culprit. But I never typed this, and neither did Mrs. Bainbridge.”
“How did Trower duplicate her signature? Has he received other correspondence from her?”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “You saw them in our file.”
“So Trower would have had a facsimile to work with,” observed Kinsey.
“So might anyone if they were using our office,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “All they would have to do is go into our filing cabinet and take one to copy.”
“An excellent point,” said Kinsey. “Godfrey, print the filing cabinet. And you might as well take exemplars from Mrs. Bainbridge while you’re at it.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Bainbridge in dismay. “I just did my nails this morning.”
Sparks smirked as Godfrey inked her partner’s fingertips.
“This does wash off, doesn’t it?” asked Mrs. Bainbridge as he rolled them on the form.
“Eventually, Ma’am,” he said. “It takes some scrubbing. A little alcohol helps.”
“In so many things,” said Sparks.
He dusted and photographed the filing cabinet, then stepped back, satisfied.
“I don’t understand why Mister Trower would go to all of this trouble,” said Bainbridge, staring disconsolately at her blackened fingertips. “He could have just said she called him to cancel.”
“He needed a plausible reason to say he never met up with her,” said Kinsey.
“Did he tell you that?” asked Sparks.
“He hasn’t told us anything.”
“Good for him,” said Sparks.
“Are you siding with a murderer?” asked Kinsey. “Not that it would surprise me in your case.”
“I’m siding with Dickie Trower,” said Sparks. “I still don’t think he did it.”
“Who else would know that you had set him up with Miss La Salle?” asked Kinsey.
“Anyone she told,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “She must have friends or family in whom she would confide. Have you spoken to them?”
“No,” said Kinsey. “We found your information in her handbag at the scene, along with a note in her handwriting with the time and place for the date. He must have contacted her by telephone.”
“If someone went to all the trouble to send himself a letter establishing a weak alibi, then he would have been smart enough to get rid of the knife,” said Sparks.
“Maybe,” said Kinsey. “But murderers, in my experience, tend not to be the clearest of thinkers.”
“Whose prints are on the letter?” Mrs. Bainbridge asked Godfrey.
“Not my department,” said Godfrey. “We have a specialist.”
“A dactyloscopist,” said Sparks, savouring the word as it rolled off her tongue.
“Very good, Miss,” said Godfrey. “Not many know that.”
“You’ll find that Miss Sparks likes to show off,” said Kinsey. “She thinks her brain is better than most others.”
“If you’re through, may we clean up?” asked Mrs. Bainbridge. “It’s disconcerting to the clientele when one’s office looks like a crime scene.”
“We’re done,” said Kinsey.
“Mike, I’d like a quick word with you,” said Sparks. “Alone.”
“Where alone?”
“Come with me,” she ordered.
He followed her into the hallway, then down to the landing just below.
“What is it?” he asked when they stopped.
“I need to have your word that our fingerprints will be destroyed after you rule us out,” she said.
“Left yours on another crime scene somewhere?” he asked.
“I’m serious, Mike,” she replied, not taking the bait. “I can’t have mine on file.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Oh, there it is,” he sighed. “Your explanation for so much of your life. I’m beginning to think they really were on a body somewhere. Perhaps more than one.”
“I’m asking you to trust me on this, Mike. Please.”
“Trust with me, once destroyed, is difficult to regain, Iris.”
“Ah, you do remember my first name. I was beginning to wonder.”
“I have been trying to forget everything about you,” he said wearily.
“No one forgets me,” she said. “Will you promise to destroy our fingerprints?”
“I can’t make that commitment.”
“Mike, I am asking as a favour to me.”
“Oh, that’s lovely,” he said, laughing bitterly. “Your days of asking favours have long vanished.”
“Well, then we’re finished here.”
They walked back into the office. Mrs. Bainbridge raised an eyebrow slightly in question. Sparks shook her head.
“I guess this is farewell, then,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “I would offer to shake your hands, but I don’t want to get ink all over them.”
“We’ll forego the niceties,” said Sparks. “Good-bye, gentlemen. Come again when you have more red herrings to chase.”
“Thank you for your assistance, ladies,” said Kinsey.
“Good-bye,” said Godfrey.
They left. Iris waited until the constabulary clatter faded down the stairs and out of the building.
“Toss me the key, would you?” she said. “I need to get these stains off my fingers.”
Gwen pulled the lavatory key and threw it to her. She stared moodily into space until Iris returned, contemplating her fingertips.
“Here’s the smell of the ink still!” cried Iris. “All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Do we have any perfumes of Arabia, by the way?”
“None,” said Gwen, taking the key from her. “My turn.”
“Take this,” said Iris, tossing her a small bottle of nail varnish remover.
She walked down the hall to the lavatory, unlocked it, then scrubbed as hard as she could until the ink was gone. Her fingertips looked red and raw when she was done. Looking at them, she had a sudden impulse to jam her nails into her arms until they bled. She gripped the sides of the sink, her breath coming in shuddering gasps. She held on until the attack subsided, then splashed some cold water on her face and neck.
The face that stared back from the mirror looked like a dead woman. She took a deep breath, pinched her cheeks to give them some colour, then walked back.
She was halfway there when she remembered that she hadn’t locked the lavatory door. It was silly, taking these precautions, but they had been drilled into her by Mister MacPherson, the custodian, so she went back and locked it. The physical act of turning the key set her mind to work, and she walked slowly back to the office, pursuing the train of thought.
She heard her partner’s voice speaking softly as she reached the door. Iris was on the telephone. She signaled for silence when she saw Gwen in the doorway.
“Yes. Yes, that would be fine,” she said. “No, we certainly don’t want that matter coming to light. Thank you so much. Yes, we must do that soon. Good to hear your voice as well. Good-bye, sir.”
She hung up, then smiled.
“What was that all about?” asked Gwen.
“I wanted to make sure our fingerprints were destroyed once they’ve eliminated us,” said Iris. “I had to go over Mike’s head. Several heads over his head, in fact.”
“He won’t like that,” said Gwen.
“No, he won’t,” said Iris, “but his happiness is no longer my charge.”
“He seemed a solid sort,” commented Gwen. “A good man in a difficult job.”
“He’s solid enough,” agreed Iris. “Solid to the point of rigidity. He needs to be more flexible if he’s to rise in this world.”
“So you think Dickie Trower is innocent,” said Gwen.
“I do,” said Iris. “God help him, because the police certainly won’t.”
“Then we should help him,” said Gwen. “We should find out who really did it.”