Rosemary Aitken (16 page)

Pearl’s face was like thunder and her eyes were furious, but she bowed the merest greeting. ‘Mr Broadbent. I’m Miss Weston, the chief proprietor. May I ask what you are doing in my shop? Blanche, you may leave us.’

Blanche surprised herself by staying where she was, and saying mutinously, ‘He says he wrote a letter to us, but of course I had not seen it, so I did not know who he was. It seems he’s come to talk to us about that dead man again – although I suppose you know that, since you saw the note. But I think perhaps that I should stay here, Pearl dear, all the same. After all, I was the one who found the corpse.’

She had never defied her sister in this way before and she braced herself for outbursts, but Pearl only snapped, ‘As you wish, my dear. On your head be it, if you have nervous palpitations afterwards. I only hoped to spare you suffering.’ She turned to Mr Broadbent with an acid smile. ‘My sister has an anxious disposition, as you see. I’m most displeased that you have troubled her. I had assumed that, by not responding to your presumptuous communication several weeks ago, I had signalled my unwillingness to entertain you here. In any case there is nothing whatever to report. What we know we have already told the police, and following your letter I asked the girl again and she assured me, with some vigour, that she did not know the man concerned. So, Mr Broadbent, since neither Blanche nor I can be of the remotest assistance with your case, I would ask you to be good enough to leave.’

Blanche was almost speechless with embarrassment, but Mr Broadbent was made of sterner stuff. He bowed politely, smiled and said, as though he were not offended in the least, ‘But I am sure that if anything at all should come to light, you two ladies will be good enough to let me know. I am staying for a few days at the Anchor Inn. The matter is important, as I said before. A considerable sum of money is at stake. So if you think of anything – anything at all – be good enough to get in touch with me. Miss Blanche already has my card, I think.’

It was true. Blanche discovered that she was still clutching it, which was rather impolite – she should have returned it to him long ago. She flashed him an apologetic grin. ‘Of course we shall be pleased to do anything we can.’ She flushed. It was ridiculous. Not ten minutes earlier she’d been upset to find him there but now she was positively loath to let him go.

‘We shall mind our own business!’ Pearl said snappily. ‘And I advise you, Mr Broadbent, to do the same! Now if you have quite finished, we have work to do.’

And Mr Broadbent said, ‘Of course! Good afternoon,’ and turned away – but not before he’d given one last private glance at Blanche. She wasn’t certain, but she was almost sure he winked! She did not, of course, say anything to Pearl about that, in any case – though her sister wanted to hear every word that had been said and wore her sour face all the afternoon.

‘Very well,’ she said to Blanche at last. ‘We’ll say no more about it. I suppose you’re not responsible if he comes barging in.’ However, she did not demand to see the card, and when Blanche went to bed she put it carefully away in a private hiding-place, behind the photograph in Mother’s frame.

‘Artie Royston?’ Effie stared at the strange man on the doorstep in dismay, shaking her head and handing back the photograph. ‘Never heard of anyone of that name in my life. There’s an Artie Kellow used to live next door when I was small – I don’t suppose it’s anything to do with him?’ She felt herself turn pink. Arthur Kellow was Peter’s pa, of course. She went on hastily, ‘I run across his son sometimes, I could give you the address. Come to think of it, he’s got your colouring.’ She looked at the caller with more interest. His hair, or what was left of it, was much the same colour as Peter’s and his dad’s – and he was rather stocky like the Kellows too, though he was not much like them round the face.

The stranger shook his head, giving off a faint odour of bay rum and brilliantine. ‘You misunderstand me, Miss Pengelly,’ he said solemnly. ‘I am not enquiring on my own account. This is a business matter.’ He moved his bowler to his other hand and felt in his coat pocket to produce a card. ‘I specialize in tracing people, that is all, especially where money matters are involved.’

Effie took the proffered card and glanced at it before she gave it back. ‘Well . . . Mr Broadbent is it? I don’t know why on earth you’ve come to me.’ The mention of debt-collection was a shock to her and she was keen to shut the door. ‘You’ll get me in trouble with the mistress, next. She doesn’t care for callers at the best of times, and she’ll start to say that I bring trouble to the house.’

Mr Broadbent took a backward pace, and almost toppled down the steps on to the street. ‘My dear Miss Pengelly! Of course I do not wish to cause alarm. But surely your employer would permit me a moment of your time . . .’

She shook her head. ‘You don’t know Mrs Thatchell. She’ll threaten to dismiss me, if she sees me chattering.’

He looked at her oddly. ‘Yet I understand there was another man who was enquiring for you, too, the day before he died? Sometime in the middle of last year?’

She felt a rush of panic. ‘I don’t know who told you, but it’s true enough – though at least he never came knocking at the door! And I don’t know who he was either.’

Mr Broadbent gave a little bow. ‘But that is precisely why I’ve to see you now. Miss Blanche Weston mentioned it to me.’ He had not actually put his foot in the door, but he stood so close against the sill he might as well have done. But he was smiling and the mention of Miss Blanche made her feel less anxious, too. If he knew the Westons he was probably respectable. He was saying smoothly, ‘You see, I believe that the man who died was either Captain Royston or a friend of his.’

‘Well, what about it?’ she said ungraciously. ‘Either way, I didn’t know him – so if he owes money you will have to look elsewhere. The police know all about it – perhaps you should ask them. Now, if you will excuse me . . .’

He did not move an inch. ‘I assure you, Miss Pengelly, there is no need for alarm. And as for owing money, it is quite the opposite. Captain Royston had a wife and child – estranged – who died quite recently. Mrs Royston has no surviving relatives, and as they were not formally divorced her estate would pass to him. If he’s alive, that is. I am trying to trace him to inform him of the fact – otherwise the money will go to Chancery. The Captain would be very glad to see me, I am sure – the sum involved is more than adequate to pay his debts – and I in turn would like to find him and so ensure my fee.’

Effie found that she was nodding. Suddenly this business did not seem so terrible. ‘I see! So let’s hope that it wasn’t Captain Royston lying dead in the court. It could be, I suppose – though if so you wouldn’t know him from that photograph. That must have been taken years and years ago. Poor fellow – it would be awful, wouldn’t it, if it turned out to be him? Starved and frozen to death, when a bob or two would certainly have saved his life and he had money coming to him all the time! Let’s hope it wasn’t him, and it was just his friend.’ She frowned. ‘Either way, it doesn’t tell us why he wanted me.’

Broadbent looked at her. ‘It’s possible he didn’t. Have you thought of that? It may be that it was just a feint—’

‘A faint?’ she interrupted.

‘An excuse for asking questions round the town. Going into shops, for instance, where it was warm and dry. Starving people do get desperate. He may have hoped to look around for things to steal and pawn – or even hawk around the villages. I’ve known such things before. And I notice, Miss Blanche says that he did not ask for your address – and you say he did not call here. Don’t you think he’d do so, if he really wanted you?’

Effie stared at him. She hadn’t thought of that – but it was obvious when you considered it. ‘But where would he get my name from? He must have known it – to do this “fainting” thing and ask Miss Blanche for me.’

Mr Broadbent nodded. ‘Overheard it somewhere in the town, perhaps, and simply seized on it. These fellows can be crafty when they try. And that’s where you can help me with my enquiries. I am trying to trace his movements earlier in the day, and this may be a clue. Who knows your name and might have mentioned you? Any of the tradesmen, for example, in the town?’

Effie shrugged. ‘I can’t imagine who. Mrs Thatchell has accounts, of course, with the grocer’s and the laundry and that sort of thing, but if they were talking about us they’d use her name, not mine. I suppose that my Aunt’s butcher might have mentioned me – I go in there from time to time to pay money off her bill – and I’ve got boots for mending in the shoemakers; they’ll be in my name.’ She thought a moment. Was it fair to mix Lettie up in this? But then she added, ‘And I do have a friend, in service in the town, who’s very friendly with the grocer’s boy. They might have talked about me, I suppose.’ She was about to mention Alex Dawes as well, when it occurred to her that it was not relevant. She had only met him after the unknown man was dead.

But Mr Broadbent seemed already satisfied. ‘Well, that gives me several openings to try. And I’ll call in at the police station as well, in case they have more information since I wrote.’

She felt herself turn scarlet. ‘The police station!’ She glanced behind her, but there was nobody nearby to overhear. She took a step towards him, and said in a lower voice, ‘If you are going down there in any case, would it be possible for you to take a note for me? I’ve nearly written it.’ She fished into her pocket for the little notebook which Alex Dawes had given her at Christmas time. ‘I haven’t quite finished but it will have to do – I don’t know how I’m going to get it to him else. I was hoping to be sent on some errand to the town, but nobody’s wanted anything today.’ She tore out the sheet and was handing it to him, when it occurred to her she had no envelope and she didn’t want people reading what she’d said. She half-withdrew it, adding sheepishly, ‘Though I haven’t even signed it, when I come to look. And I haven’t got an envelope to put it in.’

‘But I have! I’ve been carrying the photograph in one!’ He produced it from his pocket, shook Captain Royston out and put her little scrap of note inside. ‘It is a little dog-eared and we don’t have sealing-wax for it, but it will serve I’m sure.’ She tried to thank him but he waved her words aside. ‘Glad to be of service. Just tell me who it’s for?’

Effie knew her face was even redder as she said, keeping her voice as low as possible, ‘Constable Dawes, his name is, Alexander Dawes. I’m sure he’ll guess who wrote it, but can you tell him that it came from me?’

He nodded, but he did not put it in his pocket as she’d hoped, but stood there looking at it doubtfully. It made Effie nervous. ‘This is nothing to do with the Royston case, I suppose?’ he said at last.

‘Nothing at all.’ Oh my stars, there was someone on the stairs! How could she put this when she might be overheard? She leaned forward and muttered in an undertone. ‘Thing is, my father’s had an accident and this is just a note to let the policeman know . . .’ She broke off as a strident voice came from the passageway behind her. Mrs Thatchell was by the stairwell, leaning on her stick.

‘Effie! What are you doing out there on the step? I won’t have you gossiping to people on the street. I’m not expecting callers. Come back here at once!’ And she went into the morning room and slammed the door.

‘The mistress,’ Effie half-whispered. ‘I shall have to go.’

Mr Broadbent nodded and, to her relief, pocketed her note to Alex with a smile. ‘And if there’s a reply?’

She shook her head. She hadn’t thought of that – but Alex would know better than try to reach her here. ‘Tell him there’s no answer.’

A nod. ‘Then I shall leave you. Perhaps we’ll meet again. If I have any information I will pass it on to you – and perhaps you would be good enough to do the same. Miss Blanche knows where to find me, if you need to be in touch.’

He bowed, put his hat on and set off down the street.

Effie hurried back into the morning room, where Mrs Thatchell was already picking at her embroidery. She looked up, her face like thunder and her voice like ice. ‘And who, pray, was that? Surely not another message from the mine?’ Then, as Effie shook her head, ‘I trust you are not about to tell me that you have admirers?’

‘No, madam,’ Effie said as humbly as she could. ‘It was a man from London. He seems to know Miss Blanche. Said he was on business . . .’

Her employer cut her off. ‘Well, I am surprised at you. You should have sent him packing instantly. We don’t encourage hawkers! If I want silks I shall buy them from the shop. And I expect all tradesmen to call around the back. So you can tell him so, if he’s impertinent enough to call again.’ She turned away to match a piece of thread.

Effie was sufficiently flustered to exclaim, ‘Not that sort of business, Madam. He was asking for a man – some missing man I’d never heard of in my life. Something about money that was owed to him.’ She was on the verge of mentioning the connection with the corpse, but thought better of it.

Mrs Thatchell’s face was white with anger as it was. ‘Indeed? And what has that to do with you?’

‘Nothing, Madam, and I told him so.’

Mrs Thatchell pursed her lips a little more and nodded curtly. ‘And I should think so too! So, we’ll let that suffice. I don’t imagine that the man will call again – but if he does, refer him straight to me. I will not have my servants entertaining strangers on the step. Is that understood?’

Effie murmured that it was.

‘Then if you have quite finished with these interruptions, you may go down and fetch my tray!’

Alex had just finished on the beat and was returning to report when a man in a bowler hat accosted him.

‘Ah, Constable! The very man I need.’

Alex looked at the speaker with distaste: an oily person with a florid face, smelling of sweat, bay rum and cheap cologne, wearing once-slick city fashions but rather down at heel. His policeman’s eye took in the tell-tale signs – worn elbows on the jacket, well-mended boots and travel-stains on the Ulster overcoat he carried on his arm. He braced himself for the sort of hard-luck tale of theft that ended with a plea for sixpence for the bus. But he recalled his training and said, with courtesy, ‘How can I help you?’