‘Do you remember if Mabel Morgan made any talking pictures?’
‘I don’t think so. Maybe that was the trouble.’
He returned to the shed and re-applied himself to the letters:
Bunniest, Will you mind awfully if I don’t come down for the weekend? We had a vile evening at Plumstead’s. The décor is fantastically outré, with little gilt chairs all over the place, and orchids, and murals on the walls, but the rooms are frightful and the man absolutely refused to light the fire when I asked. Clement was a perfect beast. I can’t bear him when he’s not amusing. He would keep on talking about the war, some fearfully dull story of how he’d lost his platoon, and the whole thing was too ghastly for words. We all got tight. Constance was positively spifflicated and overflowing with mother-love and insisted on dragging her beastly children out of bed at two o’clock to sing madrigals. The result is, of course, that I feel quite frightful this morning and can’t think of going anywhere, even to see you, my darling. My poor lamb, I know it’s agony for you, but we’ll find a way to make up the time . . .
Nauseated by the tone of this, Stratton stopped reading and lit a cigarette. The references to getting tight suggested that the writer was a man, but it clearly hadn’t been an all-male gathering, because of the woman Constance, who obviously wasn’t much of a mother. Poor kids, thought Stratton, being woken up in the middle of the night and made to perform like trained monkeys in front of a crowd of leering, drunken strangers . . . He looked at the next letter. The contents weren’t much better: a lot of stuff about some old chap reminiscing about actresses who were the toast of his youth, a procession of women who were tipsy, or neurotic, or both, and somebody getting the pox, which was simply too shaming . . . Really, Stratton thought, it was astonishing that the pair of them had managed to make any films at all if all they ever did was get drunk and catch diseases.
He picked up a third letter, read the words ‘
My precious Pinkle-Wonk
,’ and decided that was quite enough for one evening. Walking back to the house, he tried to imagine Jenny calling him a pinkle-wonk, but failed. Just as well, he thought - as far as he was concerned that, on its own, would be adequate grounds for divorce.
Jenny had put away her darning and was re-reading Pete’s letter from the previous week. ‘I don’t like the sound of this school they’re sharing with,’ she said. ‘It seems ever so stuck-up.’
‘Bound to be.’ Stratton shrugged. ‘It’s a public school.’
‘You don’t think they’re being horrible to Pete and his friends, do you? Children can be very unkind.’
‘I don’t suppose they let them mix much,’ said Stratton. ‘Can’t have the lower orders getting ideas.’
Jenny made a snorting noise. ‘Well, they must have mixed a bit, because Pete told us about how they’d renamed the dormitories, remember? After people from Captain Scott’s Expedition.’
‘Not a very good omen, if you ask me - Scott, Evans, Wilson, Oates - they all snuffed it, didn’t they?’
‘Don’t, Ted.’ Jenny looked stricken. ‘You know how much I worry.’
‘Sorry, love.’ Stratton patted her on the knee. ‘I’m sure they’re fine,’ he added, with more confidence than he felt. ‘We’ll be able to see for ourselves in a couple of weeks, won’t we?’
‘Yes. I don’t know what the journey’s going to be like, though. Pete says here, “You will have to change and take the local train because there is no petrol and Jack has gone to the farm.”’
‘Is Jack the chauffeur?’
‘The pony. The chauffeur’s been called up. It was in Mrs Chetwynd’s last letter. I must say, it is kind of her to write to us so often.’
When the siren hadn’t sounded by half-past ten, they decided to risk sleeping in their bedroom. Enjoying the comfort after the cramped and rather damp conditions in the Anderson shelter, Stratton decided that it would be the best thing all round if Pete and his chums weren’t allowed to spend much time with the public-school boys. He definitely did not want his children growing up to be the sort of people who were likely to call each other pinkle-wonks.
Jenny prodded him in the ribs. ‘What are you laughing at?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ He turned his head and looked at her, pretty and buxom in her nightgown. ‘Come here.’
In the last few minutes before sleep, Stratton remembered what Jenny had said about Lilian Wotsit putting her head in a gas oven. ‘Before Mum died . . .’ So that would make it before . . . what? 1934. There’d been talkies for a few years by then, and if Mabel Morgan had committed suicide because she couldn’t get speaking roles, she must have been out of work for quite some time. But why couldn’t she get speaking parts? If Mabel had been refused the roles because she didn’t sound right, that would mean, surely, that there was something wrong with her accent, that she didn’t sound smart enough. And if that was the case, those letters . . . People who wrote things like that, however revolting they were, would be educated, wouldn’t they? It’s no good, he thought, it’s all just speculation. He’d have to find out more about her.
TWENTY-FOUR
Stratton took a long swallow of PC Cudlipp’s filthy tea, and surveyed the mess on his desk. It had been a terrible day. He and Jenny had been woken by raiders at three, stumbled out to the Anderson, and lain awake listening to the bombs until around five, when he’d dozed off only to be woken by the warble of the ‘Raiders Passed’ signal at six. He’d given up after that, and, still in his dressing gown and pyjamas, trudged across to the garden shed and read some more of Mabel Morgan’s letters.
By the time he’d reached the police station he felt exhausted, and discovering that the girl who’d been assaulted at the nightclub was fifteen, not eighteen, and on the run from an approved school, hadn’t improved matters. The club owner’s claims of innocence were risible, and his attempts at bribery had been insultingly clumsy - in comparison, Stratton thought, gangsters like Abie Marks were positively subtle.
After an hour and a half spent sifting papers and getting nowhere, Stratton glanced at his watch, saw that it was almost six o’clock, and, remembering that he wanted to call on Beryl Vincent on the way home, hurried from the station.
Beryl, however, wasn’t at her flat in Clerkenwell Road. Stratton debated putting a note through her letterbox, but decided against it. The visit wasn’t an official one, and he didn’t want her trying to contact him at Savile Row.
Jenny greeted him at the door with a serious face and, assuming it was because he was late, he hastened to apologise, but she shook her head abstractedly and disappeared back to the kitchen.
He knew better than to question Jenny while they were eating - she’d tell him when she was ready - so they talked about her new job at the Rest Centre, helping families made homeless by the bombing, and about the possibility of buying some wax ear-plugs to deaden the noise of the raids. When Jenny had cleared the plates and made the tea, Stratton asked ‘What’s the matter, love?’
Jenny fiddled with the knitted tea-cosy for a moment, then said, simply, ‘Johnny.’
‘Ah.’ At least it wasn’t the children.
‘He’s in real trouble, Ted. He’s been dismissed from the garage for fiddling petrol coupons. Weeks ago. Mr Hartree told me.’
‘Did he now?’ Stratton frowned. Mr Hartree, who owned the garage, was wire-thin, lecherous as a monkey, and about as shameless.
‘Don’t look like that, Ted. He wasn’t being . . . you know . . . silly.’ A slight redness appeared in Jenny’s cheeks as she said this. ‘He’s worried about the boy, that’s all. Says he’s in with a bad crowd. I don’t think Lilian and Reg have any idea.’
‘They must know he’s been sacked.’
Jenny shook her head. ‘Lilian would have told me. You’ve got to talk to him, Ted.’
‘That’s Reg’s job.’
Jenny rolled her eyes. ‘Fat lot of good he’ll do.’
‘I probably won’t do much better, love, but I suppose I could have a go,’ said Stratton resignedly, adding, ‘when I get the chance.’
‘For heaven’s sake don’t say anything in front of Reg. Get him on his own.’
‘I’m not daft, you know.’
Stratton finished his tea and walked round to Donald and Doris’s to ask about borrowing a projector. Donald thought a bit, then said he knew someone who knew someone but that it might take a few days, and with that, Stratton had to be content. He refused the offer of a cup of tea and returned home, where he sat down in his favourite armchair and slept. The sirens woke him at half-past nine, and he went out with Jenny to the Anderson. Making his large frame as comfortable as he could on one of the narrow, iron-hard mattresses, he went back to sleep without bothering to remove any of his clothes.
The following morning, gas leaks and burst water mains, casualties of the previous night’s bombing, caused most of the buses from north-east London to be diverted miles away from their usual routes. When Stratton asked the ticket collector where they were going, the man replied, cheerfully, ‘No idea, guv.’
He decided it would be quicker to walk. Clouds of acrid smoke drifting down Regent Street alerted him to a possible catastrophe, and, hurrying round the corner of Vigo Street, out of breath and three-quarters of an hour late, he found a scene of devastation. West End Central police station was more or less gutted: the ferroconcrete structure was still standing, but everything else - fittings, partitions, and furniture - had been reduced to piles of smouldering wreckage. The ceiling of the Communications Room hung in festoons over sodden mounds of plaster and brick dust, in the midst of which Arliss and Ballard, looking dishevelled with field telephones on their laps, were trying to deal with urgent messages. Several other PCs were combing through the remains of the CID office for exhibits, watched by a large crowd who were chatting, pointing, and, in most cases, scarcely bothering to conceal their glee. A crew of demolition men who were supposed to be clearing the rubble sat on the ground, engrossed in the charred remains of police files and pointing out the more interesting and confidential details to a group of auxiliary firemen.
Stratton caught sight of Cudlipp, who was holding a dented kettle and poking disconsolately through the mess, and went over to join him. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘Parachute mine, Sir. Right on the steps.’
‘Any casualties?’
‘No-one killed, Sir. Policewoman Harris got a broken leg - they’ve taken her to hospital - and DCI Lamb got a nasty knock on the head from a sheet of plywood. Just as well those windows had already gone, or he’d have been decapitated. He’s gone to hospital, too. I shouldn’t think we’ll be seeing him any time soon.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Stratton, feeling acutely guilty, tried to sound sorrier about this than he actually was. All the same, it sounded as if Lamb would be out of his hair for quite a while, and that had to be a good thing. ‘Emergency procedures working all right?’ he asked.
‘Such as they are, sir. They’re sending us to Great Marlborough Street. I don’t know when we’ll be back to normal,’ he added glumly. Looking around, Stratton seriously doubted if anything would ever be back to normal, but decided to say nothing.
An Indian waiter from Veeraswamy’s appeared at Stratton’s elbow. ‘Excuse me, sir. Very bad business all together. Boss saying using kitchen if wishing, sir. Making tea for men, sir.’
‘That’s very kind of him,’ said Stratton. ‘Thank you.’ Turning to Cudlipp, who was looking mutinous, he said, ‘You heard. Go with this gentlemen and make some tea.’
‘But sir . . .’
‘But nothing,’ said Stratton, firmly. ‘In the absence of DCI Lamb’ - he looked round quickly to make sure that no other senior officers were present - ‘I’m in charge of this station, or what’s left of it, and I’m giving you an order.’
Cudlipp looked at him resentfully and started muttering something about darkies and dirty habits. ‘For God’s sake,’ said Stratton, exasperated, ‘they’re offering to help. Off you go.’
Making a mental note to thank the restaurant manager in person for the use of his kitchen, Stratton started towards the demolition squad, intending to confiscate the files, but Ballard intercepted him, waving his notebook. ‘Urgent call, sir. Church on Eastcastle Street caught a packet last night, and they’ve found a body.’
‘That’s hardly surprising,’ said Stratton, mildly.
‘Not a bomb casualty, sir. This one was buried.’
‘They usually are.’
‘Not in the normal way, sir. The body’s not supposed to be there and the warden says it looks funny.’
‘Funny?’
‘He says the head’s been smashed in, sir.’
‘I see. What’s the name of the church?’
‘Our Lady and St. Peter, sir. Left-footers.’ Seeing Stratton’s puzzled expression, he added, ‘Papists, sir.’
‘Oh. Yes. Well, I suppose it would be, with a name like that.’
Stratton could picture the church - he’d walked past it hundreds of times, but never been inside. It was Victorian, gloomy and forbidding. He thought that it might be made of multi-coloured brick, but years of London smog had given it such a thick coating of soot that he couldn’t be certain about this. ‘I don’t suppose,’ he said, ‘that you’ve unearthed the Murder Bag?’