This morning, however, the gate was not bolted and somehow this worried Dot. What did it mean? Had someone been snooping around the back premises? If so, did Emma know or was she still slumbering peacefully, unaware that there had been a prowler?
Asking herself these unanswerable questions, however, would not do any good, so Dot crossed the yard and rang the bell long and hard, reflecting that Emma had told her she was always up and about by seven o’clock, and it was past that now; Dot had heard a clock striking seven as she hurried along Whitechapel. Since there was no answer to her ring, she supposed that Emma might have slept in for once, or might be listening to the wireless, for she had remarked that they must ring persistently if her set was playing.
Dot raised her hand to ring the bell again, then paused to listen. No sound came from the flat above so she assumed that Emma must have overslept. Glancing round the yard, she saw the dustbin standing meekly by the back gate and took the tin lid off it; she might wake the whole neighbourhood but she dared not let Emma sleep on, not knowing the vital information which she, Dot, was here to pass on. She banged on the door with the dustbin lid and was quite shocked by the resultant clangour, but there was no response from Emma’s flat, though Dot saw a face appear at the window above Beasley’s china shop, next door.
It was only at this point that the possibility occurred to Dot that there might be another explanation for the open gate than that of a prowler: someone could have come in through it, but someone could also have gone out. Dot stepped back and looked up at the windows which overlooked the yard. The curtains were still drawn across and Dot just knew that by this time in the morning Emma would have been in the kitchen making an early cup of tea, with the curtains drawn back and probably the window open as well. Even if her friend were ill, Dot was sure she would have staggered to the kitchen to make herself a drink, for Dot herself was regretting that she had not stopped in Lavender Court for long enough to have a cuppa; tea would have taken too long but she could have mixed conny-onny with water and slaked her thirst with that.
Still, it was too late for such regrets. Dot turned disconsolately away, and as she did so, an object on the paving stones caught her eye and she bent to pick it up. Odd! It was a small magnet, the sort children use. Dot shrugged and slipped it into her pocket, concluding that it had nothing to do with Emma’s disappearance. Yet she had a vague feeling, in the back of her mind, that the little magnet did mean something. When was she last thinking about magnets . . . ?
Dot was actually going out through the back gate when a voice hailed her from the other side of the wall. She glanced across and saw Mrs Beasley, her grey locks still confined in a hairnet and her body swathed in a shabby red dressing gown. ‘Mornin’, young ’un! You tryin’ to make a delivery? Only I don’t reckon Miss Grieves is at home. I heared her go off last night – it must have been after ten ’cos I heard the clock strike just before, I can tell you that much – because I were too hot to get to sleep and that gate of hers squawks like a soul in torment whenever it’s opened or shut.’ She chuckled. ‘I thought to meself I’d have a word with her about applyin’ a drop of oil because I’m a light sleeper and I guessed I’d be woke again – if I’d had the good luck to fall asleep, that was – when she came back in. Only she didn’t – come back in, I mean – so I weren’t disturbed after all.’
‘Then where is she?’ Dot said wildly. ‘I can’t believe Emma would stay out all night! Oh, I do hope nothing awful has happened to her.’
Mrs Beasley clucked consolingly. ‘Happened to her? Now whatever could happen to a nice young lady like Miss Grieves? Oh, I know her grandpa were killed during that jewel robbery, but she’s a sensible girl, that one; she ain’t going to go round wi’ diamonds in her pockets or gold round her neck, so no one ain’t likely to bash her on the head and steal from her. No, no, likely she’s met up with one of her friends from that college she went to, and stayed overnight rather than come home in the early hours. Don’t you worrit yourself about Miss Grieves; she’ll be back.’
Dot thanked her and wandered back down the jigger into Church Street, her mind whirling. She might have accepted Mrs Beasley’s theory of an old friend from art school had it not been for the hour at which Emma had left her flat. At that time of night, Emma should surely have been tucked up in her bed and would scarcely have left it to meet a friend, no matter how close the two had once been. Dot cudgelled her brain as she set out for Virgil Street. The young reporter might be able to throw some light on Emma’s whereabouts, but if not, he still needed to know that Constable McNamara was the dreaded Ollie.
Dot broke into a run, then slowed to a walk once more, glancing up at the chemist’s clock as she passed it. It was a quarter to eight, so it was still early enough to catch Nick and Corky at their breakfast. The more she thought about it, the more she worried about Emma. The older girl had been very kind to her and Dot’s sharp eyes had spotted, some time before, that Nick was growing very fond of Emma. Whether her friend returned his feelings, Dot was not so sure, but it seemed to her that few women would be able to resist Nick’s rueful smile and the twinkle in those dark brown eyes. Emma might not be in love with him yet, but Dot was pretty sure she would soon succumb. And Dot could not forget that Emma liked and trusted the fat policeman, nor fail to remember the cruel blows which had ended old Mr Grieves’s life. Her friend simply must be warned about Ollie’s true identity before something dreadful happened.
In Emma’s eyes, Constable McNamara was the comfortable local scuffer who popped into the shops along Church Street for a chat and a hot cup of tea on winter mornings, or a glass of ale in the summer. Folk trusted their local policeman and would not dream that such a person could ever turn his coat, let alone commit murder.
By now, Dot was approaching No. 25 Virgil Street and was beginning to rehearse in her head what she should say to Mr Cartwright, or his wife, should one of them answer the door. This proved unnecessary, however, for she spotted Nick and Corky coming towards her along the pavement, so deep in conversation that they didn’t even see her until she spoke.
‘Nick! Corky! Oh, you don’t know how glad I am to see you! The most awful thing has happened and I’m worried sick about Emma.’
Nick had been smiling a welcome, but at her words he stopped short and grabbed her arm. ‘Emma? What’s happened to Emma? Oh my God, if she’s hurt . . .’ He shook Dot’s shoulder quite roughly. ‘What’s happened, Dot? Tell me at once!’
‘She’s not in her flat and I can’t tell you where she’s gone, but honestly, Nick, I think you’d better hear the whole story,’ Dot said quickly. ‘I don’t know whether there’s any connection between the two . . . look, where can we go to talk?’
Nick thought for a moment and was still thinking when Corky chimed in. ‘There’s the playground; it’s too early for the kids to be out so we can be pretty private there.’
He was right; the playground was deserted and the three of them sat down on a low wall whilst Dot started her tale. This time she was determined to tell it all right from the beginning, and started with her visit to the butcher’s yard on behalf of Uncle Rupert, ignoring Nick’s impatient reminder that they knew all about this already. Corky, perhaps knowing Dot better than Nick did, waved the young man to silence. ‘Let Dot tell the tale her own way,’ he said reprovingly. ‘This way we’ll get the full story without important bits being left out. Carry on, Dotty.’
Doggedly, Dot carried on, though she could understand Nick’s eagerness to learn what had happened to Emma, and it was not long before Nick and Corky were in possession of all the facts. She even produced the small magnet from her pocket and showed it to them, though Nick waved this aside as irrelevant. ‘It’s just a kid’s toy,’ he said disgustedly. ‘Tell me what Mrs Beasley said again.’
Dot was beginning to do so when Corky cut in. ‘I reckon that magnet is important,’ he said slowly. ‘Shut up a minute, Nick, and you Dot, and let me think.’
‘What’s important is why Emma left the flat just after ten and still hadn’t returned by eight this morning . . .’ Nick said, glaring at Corky. ‘As you say, Dot, Emma really liked and trusted that fat bounder, so it’s possible she may have confided in him. He might have lured her into some quiet premises and locked her in . . . he might have injured her in some way . . . oh, there must be something we can do.’
Corky waved his hand. ‘Shut up and listen,’ he said brusquely. ‘Do you remember when we were talking about getting the necklace back, someone suggested fishing for it with a magnet? Only you, Nick, reminded us that gold and silver and such don’t respond to a magnet. Everyone accepted that and Emma obviously knew it was true. But don’t you
see
? Several times, Emma has said that the necklace wasn’t particularly valuable in itself because her grandfather made it when he was a young man only to show what he could do, and she thought it was really a fake. If it was, then surely there’s a good chance that a magnet could have brought it up, so Emma must have gone out, in the middle of the night when there would be few people about, to fish for the necklace. What’s more, I reckon she got it,’ he ended triumphantly.
The other two gazed at him, awestruck. ‘I reckon you’re right,’ Nick said, his voice sinking to a whisper. ‘I reckon you’re right, Corky, and that’s where she went: to the ruined church, I mean. But she can’t have got the necklace.’
‘Why not?’ Corky said belligerently, bristling. ‘I think she must have got it and perhaps she’s taken it to someone really important, because it’s proof, isn’t it?’
‘She won’t have got it because she dropped the magnet,’ Nick said patiently, but Corky immediately interrupted him once more.
‘Oh, Nick, didn’t you reckernise that magnet? When I were a little kid at Redwood Grange, we had one of them magnetic fishing games. It has four little rods, each wi’ a magnet on the end. I reckon she’d have shoved all four into her pocket in case one weren’t strong enough to bring up the necklace. That’s what I’d do if it were me. And I reckon she’s got the necklace right now and is probably back at the flat already, waiting for the rest of us to turn up so’s we can plan our next move.’
Immensely heartened by these words, the three of them jumped to their feet and began to make their way back towards Church Street.
Emma had still not returned to the flat. Nick, Corky and Dot had gone straight to the stockroom door, but they retraced their steps and went round to the front and into the shop, which was now open, to ask if Emma was available. They were not surprised to learn that no member of the staff had seen her that morning and that no note, or message, had been left to explain why she was not there. Mr Winterton said, rather deprecatingly, that he suspected Miss Grieves was giving them a chance to show that they could manage without her, and since she had entrusted him with a key to the premises the previous day this did not seem unlikely to the staff, who knew nothing of Emma’s departure in the middle of the night.
Miss Snelling, however, did not seem too happy. ‘If you’d be kind enough to go up to her flat, Mr Randall – or perhaps it might be better if Dot went – then we could just ascertain that she isn’t ill and in need of assistance,’ she suggested. ‘I quite understand what Mr Winterton means, but Miss Grieves is a very conscientious employer and would have come down by now had she been able to do so. Mr Winterton does not have a key to the safe so we have been unable to dress the window properly, and Miss Grieves did not give either of us the yellow bag which contains the float, so I assume that is also in the safe.’
Dot agreed at once to go up to the flat but came down again shaking her head. ‘She must have had an urgent call from someone, too urgent to allow her to do more than fly out of the house,’ she said. ‘Her handbag is still on the kitchen dresser and the grey jacket which she wears for every day is hanging in the wardrobe.’ She smiled at Miss Snelling with forced cheerfulness. ‘But no doubt the mystery will be cleared up in an hour or two, when she either sends a message or turns up herself.’
Once outside in Church Street, however, the three exchanged worried glances. ‘In my opinion, Ollie McNamara got wind of what was going on – may even have seen her prowling the streets in the middle of the night – and has done something dastardly,’ Nick said, his voice grim. ‘Isn’t it time we went to the authorities? After all, we know who the murderer is now.’
‘We know it was Ollie, but we still don’t have the necklace,’ Dot pointed out. ‘And suppose he’s got Emma locked away somewhere? If he knows we’ve discovered his identity he might think it was worth bumping Emma off – I mean you can’t be hung twice, can you – whereas if he still thinks we don’t know . . .’
Corky broke in at this point. ‘The first thing is to find Emma, and if that means following McNamara – Ollie, I mean – for days and days, then I’m willing,’ he said. He turned to Nick. ‘Tell me honestly, Nick, can we go to the rozzers without the necklace to prove Dot’s story isn’t just made up? Remember, McNamara isn’t just any policeman, he’s the local bobby on the beat, trusted by everyone, and he’s in league with Rathbone, what’s a respected citizen, a member of the Chamber of Commerce, a feller who probably contributes to the Police Fund and does all sorts for the community.’
Nick began to look thoughtful and Dot realised that he saw the point of Corky’s argument. She would swear on the Bible that she had been in the dustbin and had heard the two men discussing the robbery. She had believed herself to be in Rathbone’s yard and had later satisfied herself that it was so, but she had never actually seen Archie Rathbone talking to Ollie, and had certainly not identified the fat constable on that particular occasion. Without the necklace as proof, it was possible that the authorities would prefer to accept whatever story Archie and Ollie dreamed up, and would dismiss her as an over-imaginative troublemaker. And though Nick was a reliable grown-up, he was also a stranger and one who had connived with a runaway orphan from a London children’s home when he should, by rights, have handed Corky back to the authorities.