The Saltwater Murder Read online

  ‘Selwyn?’ Lovelace looked at Posie. ‘Well, well. That was one of the suspect’s names on the list, wasn’t it? Good. They’re coming to us.’

  He looked at his watch. It was eleven already. ‘Perfect. Perhaps Mr Pickle can fill me in on the character of the deceased. And I’ll show him a copy of that interesting list Mr Lyle had drawn up; see what he has to say for himself, and what he has to say about the others on the list. Rainbird, can you take this evidence bag over to the Yard, and give it to the Forensics lads? But make sure you take a copy of everything first. I don’t want any of this stuff going walkies. It’s more than your Inspector’s exams are worth, my lad.’

  ‘Will do, sir. I’ll keep everything safe.’

  Posie took both bacon rolls from the Sergeant and he took the evidence bag and scuttled off. Posie ate her roll in a trice, licking her fingers and trying not to drip bacon fat and butter down her silk dress which was already in quite a state. She would have handed the second roll over but the Inspector was opening and closing the desk drawers again, chattering as he worked:

  ‘You’d better join me today, Posie. Come at one o’clock for the interview with this Selwyn Pickle fella. We can then go through any new leads, following which we can get a lift across to Chelsea to speak to Lady Antonia at four. Suit you?’

  ‘Certainly. And I was thinking, sir, you keep saying you can’t get a hold of what Amyas was really like as a person. Well, maybe Rufus could help us out? He knew Amyas at school and I daresay they were still in touch: they’re probably the only boys from their class who survived the Great War. And I know for a fact that Rufus is in town, he’s at the House of Lords all week. I’m sure he’d be willing to help us. I’ll send him a telegram.’

  ‘Yes, do.’

  Lovelace was pleased, for the person Posie spoke of was worlds away from being a usual contact for a policeman to have on his books, and Posie was the useful entry into this world. Rufus was Rufus, Earl of Cardigeon, and Posie was often to be found in the company of Rufus’ wife, Dolly. In fact, she had been dancing with her at the Ritz the night before. All night long.

  What Posie didn’t mention to Lovelace was that Rufus and Dolly’s marriage appeared to be heading for troubled waters, and that Dolly was desperately unhappy at the man Rufus was becoming, both at home and in the House of Lords: a conceited, self-important, conservative, self-centred so-and-so, with not one iota of pity or understanding for those born less fortunate than himself. The kind of man Dolly would have run many, many miles from in the past.

  Posie realised the Inspector was speaking to her now, and she dragged herself back to the present with an effort.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I was saying you’d better get yourself smartened up, Posie. I don’t mind if you look like you’ve been out on the razz all night, but it might not set the right tone with Lady Antonia. Or with the Earl of Cardigeon.’

  Posie gaped. Lovelace had never spoken to her in such patronizing tones before. Who did he think he was? Treating both her and Sergeant Rainbird like glorified skivvies… The cheek of it! She had come here as fast as she could, answering what had been described as an urgent call, and this was the thanks she got.

  She bit into the second bacon roll savagely, and turned on her heel, grabbing up her carpet bag. She caught a brief impression of the Inspector’s surprised face as she went. As Posie marched along the corridor with its big windows and stuffy heat, she heard him call out behind her:

  ‘See you at one o’clock, Posie. And maybe you can tell me then just why it is that you’re off to Whitley Bay. You know I’m not one for believing in coincidences!’

  But she didn’t bother to reply.

  ****

  Five

  Posie stood on the small blue-carpeted landing outside her office on Grape Street, three floors up, steeling herself to go in. She’d come back from Lincoln’s Inn at a brisk trot, hoping to walk off her anger in the ten minutes it took her, but all she’d done was work up an unattractive sweat. Not wanting to waste time by going home, she’d dunked her face under the cold tap in the tiny office bathroom on the landing and hoped for the best.

  In days which seemed long gone she’d not have cared two hoots who saw her in last night’s clothes, but the new Posie felt sadder, wiser. Definitely older.

  ‘Thirty-three this coming birthday,’ she muttered to herself with some distaste. ‘Oh, just grow up!’

  She pushed at the office door with its frosted glass window but, to her surprise, found it locked. Relieved, she dug around for her keys and passed through the empty client waiting room, making for her own private office at the back.

  The air here, as everywhere, was hot and stuffy. A blue glass vase of past-their-best roses, bought off a barrow last week, added a pungent note. Posie hoisted up the double sash windows behind her desk, sending a group of pigeons who had been taking advantage of the shade of the window-ledge soaring skywards.

  The view from Posie’s office window was nothing special. In fact, it was dull as ditch-water, with its vista of three sides of tall grey office-backs, fire-escapes and sooty chimneys; ringed around a scrubby courtyard where office workers huddled together on coffee breaks, smoking and laughing, calling out to each other or sometimes singing snatches of music-hall songs. When Posie had first come to London from Norfolk, in 1921, using up the tiny amount of money her dead father had left her to establish the Grape Street Bureau, this office had seemed a paradise. A refuge, a haven. And a way forwards.

  The grey urban view from this window, so different from the open sky, rolling green fields and golden shores which Posie had seen out of the Norfolk Rectory windows almost her whole life, represented a complete change, and a welcome one at that. Even now, three years on, with the Detective Agency a force to be reckoned with, not to mention money and a successful reputation under her belt, Posie still felt a thrill of appreciation when she looked out of this window.

  London, all before her, in all its guises. London, which stood for opportunities, for luck and for changes; for independence, and for a future beyond that dreadful war they had all had to go through.

  Posie sighed. She felt hot and cross and sad.

  London held no future now for Amyas Lyle. No more luck, or change, or opportunities for him. Someone had taken it upon themselves to snuff out all the talent, all the fame, all the complexity -both good and bad- that had been Amyas Lyle.

  Posie was on her hands and knees now, grimly determined, pulling out the contents of a small cupboard under her desk. Here she kept a few changes of clothes for different occasions, and a bag with a bit of make-up and hair pomade. In the past, when he’d first known her, Len Irving, her now-partner in the Detective Agency, had referred to Posie keeping a ‘glamour-attack’ in here, as she’d normally kept a set of stunning evening clothes on hand, just in case she was asked out, or had to work over dinner.

  Things were different now. Quite the reverse, in fact. And Posie sighed wistfully as she slipped out of her dirty silk sheath dress and stepped into a beautifully-cut but plain emerald silk shirt-dress, a row of smart gold buttons down the front the only decoration. She thrust her feet into matching dark jade t-bar shoes and huffed as she clipped on green paste earrings, which pinched atrociously.

  ‘Smart enough now for you, Richard Lovelace?’

  Bright red lipstick followed, and exaggerated eye-black. Attacking her very short dark hair with a steel comb, she patted wax onto the shingled curls. She finished off with a large squirt of Parma Violet: no other jewellery, not one ring. Outside in the main office she heard the door swing open.

  ‘Posie? That you?’

  Len Irving tapped lightly at her door, then stuck his head in. ‘I just nipped out for cakes. But what with it being the holidays and all, Lyons only had a small selection. Come and join me. Prudence is in the kitchen putting the kettle on.’

  Posie made a moue of discontent; she didn’t really have time to be sitting around eating cakes. But then she made up her mind. The day when she didn’t have time to eat cakes with her office colleagues and employees was a very grim one.

  ‘Just coming.’

  The area they used as a client waiting room consisted of two settees and two armchairs, all grouped around a low coffee table which held a selection of popular magazines and at least one newspaper. The fireplace behind them was used all through winter, but now someone – probably Prudence – had put a large woven basket containing dried flowers in the empty grate.

  Posie sank down on one of the sofas just as Prudence Smythe, their office secretary, entered with the tea-things. Len had opened all the windows in pursuit of air and then thrown himself down opposite Posie on the other sofa. He tore open the striped blue Lyons paper bag in silence, and cleared a space on the table for Prudence to put down the teapot and cups.

  ‘There!’ Len grinned, a mischievous energy playing over his devilishly handsome tanned face, his light green eyes alight with happiness. He shook out his purchases as Prudence perched on an armchair and silently poured out the teas. Two fancy iced biscuits featuring a red Eiffel Tower and two iced biscuits with the Olympic symbol of five interlinked multi-coloured rings clattered onto the big shared dinner-plate.

  ‘If we can’t be in Paris at the Olympics, let’s go for the next best thing, eh, and celebrate anyway?’

  He then shook out a few more iced biscuits in the shape of bright yellow gold medals.

  ‘See? I was saving the best for last. These are to celebrate good ol’ Harold Abrahams winning the gold medal last night for Britain! Talk about a wonder – the under-dog beating all the favourites, especially the Yanks – in the 100 metres dash! Wish I’d been there to see it. I was listening on the radio, though. My Aggie couldn’t tear me away from our wireless set, even f
or my supper. I felt like I was running along with Abrahams, and I was that excited and exhausted by his victory I couldn’t manage more than a few mouthfuls of my shepherd’s pie when I eventually did sit down to eat!’

  Posie laughed despite herself and crunched down on a gold medal. Len was sports mad, but even if you weren’t, news of the summer Olympics being held in Paris was splashed all over central London; on news-stands and in newspapers. There were boys shouting on street corners about it. You couldn’t avoid it, even if you tried. The newspaper on their own coffee table, The Times, carried only news about the winning of the gold medal. The attempts by the runners Harold Abrahams and the Scot, Eric Liddell, to win a medal at the Olympics were being followed avidly by the nation. In particular, Eric Liddell’s strictly religious stance which had led him to refuse to run on a Sunday, had become the tea-room chatter up and down the country.

  Len slurped his tea: ‘By Jove, what I wouldn’t have given for a ticket last night. But I’ll be listening in again on Friday evening, when Liddell is running in the 400 metres. Maybe God really does have a plan for him: needed him to rest up good and proper last Sunday, eh? So he could save his energy for Friday’s races…’

  At Prudence’s rather scandalised look, he changed the subject quickly and looked pointedly at his business partner. ‘You look jolly nice, Posie. Someone lucky taking you out for lunch, are they?’

  Posie finished off her tea and shook her head. ‘No. This will be my lunch, and a dashed good one too. I’m off to meet the Inspector at the Yard, on a rather horrible new murder case. Not that he’s in my best books just now.’

  ‘What’s the problem? The Inspector and you are normally thick as thieves.’

  ‘Let’s just say he’s not in the most favourable of moods today: biting heads off left, right and centre. He ought to be careful; he’ll have no-one left working for him at this rate. I don’t know what’s the matter.’

  ‘Poor man,’ muttered Prudence, half to herself and half to Posie. She rose, rather self-righteously, brushing crumbs off her unfashionably long black skirt, which looked hot for a summer’s day. ‘It’s barely been seven months since the loss of his wife, Molly. Who knows what’s the matter with him? Maybe it’s an important day today. His wife’s birthday? Or a wedding anniversary? You’d do as well to remember that, Miss Parker. I do realise we have all lost people important to us recently, but some of us seem to cope better than others, don’t we?’

  And Prudence turned quickly on her heel, crashing out and slamming the office door loudly behind her. She could be heard lumbering heavily down the stairs.

  Len got to his feet, unsure whether to follow Prudence or not, but stayed rooted to the spot. He exhaled, slowly:

  ‘What the deuce was that all about? So, yes, we all know that poor old Lovelace lost his wife in that bally house fire.’ He coughed self-consciously. ‘And you lost Alaric, but who on earth has Prudence lost? And why’s she so narky with you all of a sudden, Posie?’

  Posie chewed at her lip, dismayed. ‘I suppose she means she’s lost Sergeant Binny. Don’t you think?’

  Prudence had never been much fun, but in the last year Posie and Len had seen a sweeping change come over the prim, efficient secretary: a sadness which couldn’t be shaken off; a snappishness at work and a shortness with clients and the young, enthusiastic office boy, Sidney. In the busyness of their own lives – and their own problems – they hadn’t addressed the problem of Prudence, letting it simmer on.

  Posie nodded now, certain of her ground. ‘There was a photograph of Binny on her desk for a while. About a year ago. I never questioned her about it. It vanished after his death last July.’

  There had been the glimmer of a plain gold ring, too. Worn for just a couple of weeks on Prudence’s wedding ring finger. And that had been about a year ago, too. Posie had seen it at the time, but not commented on it, conscious of Prudence’s very private personality; waiting for her secretary to share her good news at the right time. But that right time had never come.

  ‘I think they may have been briefly engaged. Do you remember how Prudence was acting at Binny’s funeral, Len? Like she could barely support herself? They hadn’t announced it yet, I’m guessing, and she didn’t feel she could speak of it when he died. Perhaps she felt people wouldn’t believe her? Sergeant Binny was rather a dashing lad, wasn’t he? And Prudence is just, well, Prudence.’

  ‘Poor old sausage.’ Len grimaced. ‘She’s only got her old mama, hasn’t she? And she’s an invalid. Old Binny must have been the answer to all her dreams. And then he was snatched away so cruelly. It accounts for the awful black clothes she wears, day-in, day-out. And have you noticed she seems to have lost a lot of weight, too? Those widows’ weeds positively hang off her…’

  Posie sniffed pointedly. The subject of weight – weight loss in particular – was an uncomfortable one to her. As each year crept by, she seemed to have grown ever more voluptuous, and her twice-yearly visits to her dressmakers seemed to involve ever more instances of lettings-out of the seams of her existing clothes and slightly larger, more forgiving choices of patterns and materials for her new clothes.

  Seeing his error, Len rushed on: ‘At the end of the day, it’s a shame. But these sad things happen. We all have our lonelinesses, don’t we? Doesn’t explain why she’s so mad at you, does it?’

  Posie shrugged. ‘I suppose Prudence thinks I don’t mourn Alaric enough, that I’m not clad often enough in black for him, maybe? I know she idolised him, had a bit of a pash on him. She loved that whole fame thing. Whenever she came across a picture or an article about Alaric in a newspaper, she cut it out for one of her dashed scrap-books.’

  For a fleeting yet vivid moment Posie thought about Amyas Lyle, and his scrap-book about her, which had made her feel so uncomfortable. That too had also contained pictures of Alaric.

  ‘Prudence always blushed like crazy whenever she answered the telephone and the Operator announced his name, or when Alaric called here… but it’s not as if I killed him, for goodness’ sake. Or that it was even my fault. And it’s not as if I don’t mourn Alaric. In my way.’

  Len placed an arm on Posie’s sleeve. ‘Let it go, old thing. In truth she shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. You’re her employer, after all. And we should haul her over the coals for it. But we’ll let it pass: give Prudence the benefit of the doubt. Let’s see where we are at the end of the year, eh? If she’s still not happy working here we can get another gal.’

  Posie looked doubtful but Len carried on: ‘I’ve a client coming in, in twenty minutes,’ he grinned wolfishly, ‘and I need to tell him his wife is definitely doing the dirty on him, with a work colleague, no less! I’ve got the photographs to prove it. But before he comes, do tell me about this horrible new murder case of yours.’

  And so Posie found herself telling Len all about her morning, and Len exhaled in disbelief as Posie dug around in her carpet bag, bringing out her silver notebook, flicking through to the page where she had copied down Amyas Lyle’s own list of suspects. She thrust it at Len who read it quickly.

  Posie sighed. ‘We really need a break-through with this list. At the moment it could be written in Russian for all I understand of it!’

  She was just putting the notebook away when Len grabbed her by the hand. ‘Hang on a minute.’

  He looked excited. ‘Show me that list again.’

  Posie obediently dug out her copy of Amyas’ list. Len stabbed at it vigorously. ‘Fever Street,’ he said, nodding with certainty to himself.

  ‘You know it?’ Posie had never heard of it before. She watched as Len ran to his own office, and came back clutching at a worn and grubby map of central London, held together along its waxy seams with an assortment of tapes and sticking-plasters.

  ‘I’ll say I know it!’ Len was a shadower, responsible for photographing and documenting evidence of adultery for divorce cases so that they could proceed to Court. Lucrative work, if immoral and slightly grubby. But work which had kept the Grape Street Bureau going through several lean patches, and work which Len obviously relished.