Our Lady of Pain (20 page)

“It’s starting again,” said Roger with a groan. “Not my thing. I say, would you like to go driving in the Park with me tomorrow?”

Rose was about to refuse, but then a spurt of rebellion prompted her to say, “I should like that very much.”

Why should she forgo the chance of a drive with a handsome man for someone like Harry who, as usual, had not even bothered to show up?

Harry had been refused an invitation. Mrs. Blenkinsop had recently tried to hire him to find her lost dog and Harry had declined. She had not forgiven him. He wondered how he was going to be able to see Rose. He also realized that he could not afford to keep turning down minor cases and so he told his secretary to advertise in the newspapers for detectives. Daisy was not in a condition to go out detecting and he needed Becket with him as an assistant as well as a driver.

He was disappointed that Rose had not called him to tell him of any social engagements where he might meet her. He wrongly assumed that she would understand that he had been unable to secure an invitation.

Then he suddenly thought that at least Daisy could call on her and tell her all about the latest developments. Unfortunately, he forgot to tell Daisy why he had failed to appear the night before.

Rose listened in growing horror as Daisy told her of the death of the prison guard. She almost thought of cancelling her outing with Roger but then realized if she did so, her mother would be furious with her.

“I wonder how Kerridge got on with interviewing Jones,” she said. “I would have loved to be there.”

“What I was wondering,” said Daisy, “was how a haberdasher from a shop in the Mile End Road could suddenly afford a large shop in Notting Hill, not to mention a flat in Chepstow Mansions.”

“Do you mean he might have been some sort of criminal using the shop as a cover?”

“Something like that. I’m thinking of going back down the East End to make some inquiries. Can you come?”

Rose looked at the clock. Three in the afternoon. She planned long preparations to dazzle Roger. “I cannot, Daisy. I am going out driving with a gentleman and want to look my best.”

“And who is this gentleman?”

“Lord Cherm’s son, Roger. He is well travelled and is very interesting.”

“And what about the captain?”

“Daisy, he promised to be at the Mrs. Blenkinsop’s last night and he did not bother to come. Delighted as I am to see you, I feel he should have made a push to see me himself.”

“Perhaps he was unable to get an invitation.”

“Pooh, I happen to know he has done work for Mrs. Blenkinsop in the past. He does not care enough. If he had really loved me, he would not have become enamoured with Dolores.”

Rose, much as she liked to consider herself democratic, felt that there was something seriously wrong when Harry could be charmed by a vulgar creature from the East End.

“I’ll go myself,” said Daisy.

Harry went to Scotland Yard. “How did you get on with Jones?” he asked Kerridge.

“Jones got a lawyer here very quickly. He acted the outraged shopkeeper. As we had nothing so far to connect him with either Carver or Biles, we had to let him go.”

“What did you make of him?”

“I’m puzzled. He does seem a respectable man, rather weak and fussy. It would take a great stretch of my imagination.”

“If he is innocent, why did he refuse to see me?”

“Perhaps he has something murky to hide other than murder.”

“I wonder. He does seem to live in style and have a large shop.

Quite a social jump-up from the East End. I think I’ll go down there with Becket and ask around where the shop used to be.”

Daisy had had the same idea. The shop was now an ironmonger’s. She pushed open the door and went in.

A huge man in a brown overall stood behind the counter. Without Rose’s purse to back her up, Daisy did not want to spend the small amount of money she had with her by buying items of ironmongery. She decided to be direct.

“I am working for the Cathcart Detective Agency,” she said. “Did you know the previous owner, Mr. Jones?”

“I bought the shop from him, that’s all,” he said.

“The thing that puzzles me,” said Daisy, “is how he got enough money out of the sale to buy that big shop up west?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“I tried. Anyway, the police are questioning him today.”

“I don’t like nosy parkers.” He came round the counter and loomed over her. “Do you know what happens to nosy parkers round here?”

Daisy turned to go.

“They end up in the river,” he shouted.

Daisy reached for the door handle but a vicious blow struck her on the back of the head.

“I’ll deal with you later,” growled the shopkeeper.

He decided to close up. When Becket and Harry arrived, he was putting up the shutters.

Harry approached him. “I would like a word with you.”

“Haven’t got the time,” he said. “Closing up.”

“Bit early for that, isn’t it?” asked Harry.

Becket got down from the car and stood beside Harry. Then Becket heard a faint cry from the shop. “Help me!”

The shopkeeper snarled, “Go away,” and tried to get into the shop. Harry struck him a savage blow behind his legs with his stick and the man fell to the ground.

“See who’s there, Becket,” said Harry.

Becket ran into the shop. Then Harry, standing over the fallen shopkeeper, heard Becket howl, “It’s Daisy. She’s hurt bad.”

The shopkeeper tried to struggle to his feet. Harry struck him over the head and he fell down again.

He went in to the shop. “I’ll tie that villain up. Help me with a shutter. We’ll lift Daisy out and put her in the car and then get her to hospital. Take her to Saint Bartholomew’s.”

Harry found some rope behind the counter. He went out and tied the man up and dragged him by his heels into the shop. Then he brought a shutter and they gently lifted Daisy onto it. Daisy was moaning faintly, and as they lifted her, Harry saw with horror that the back of her gown was stained with blood.

Once Daisy had been lifted into the car and driven off, Harry returned to the shop. He saw there was a telephone on the wall. Odd that a poor neighbourhood shop should boast a telephone, he thought, but he dialled Scotland Yard and told Kerridge about the events.

Then he phoned the earl’s secretary and left a message for Rose that Daisy had been attacked and was now in hospital.

I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne and yet must bear,
Till death like sleep might steal on me
.

—
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

Rose was not at home for Harry’s telephone call. She was out being driven in the Park by the handsome Roger. She found him more and more intriguing and felt she could listen to his stories for hours. His tales took her imagination flying to coral islands, to the minarets of Istanbul and the bustling excitement of New York.

He made her feel feminine, light and free. There was none of that aching, dark, brooding, frightening passion she often felt for Harry.

The earl had demanded to know who had rung and Matthew had told him about Daisy’s predicament. The earl told his wife.

“Where is she?” demanded Lady Polly.

“Bart’s.”

“Then we must go immediately.”

“I’ll order the carriage,” said the earl.

Daisy had been employed by them and the earl and countess were diligent at looking after their staff. That Daisy was no longer in their employ did not matter. It was still their responsibility to take care of her.

They were escorted by a matron to outside a ward where Becket was sitting with his head in his hands.

“How is she?” demanded Lady Polly.

“I’m waiting to find out, my lady,” said Becket, getting to his feet.

“We will have her removed to a private room as soon as possible,” said the earl.

They waited in silence. Becket was too upset, too shy of them at the same time, to make any attempt at conversation.

At last a doctor approached them. “Mr. Becket,” he said, “your wife is going to be all right, but I’m afraid Mrs. Becket has lost her baby.”

“We are the Earl and Countess of Hadshire,” said Lady Polly grandly. “We feel Mrs. Becket should be moved to a private room.”

“We will do that as soon as she comes out of the operating theatre.”

“May I see her?” pleaded Becket.

“It won’t be long now. My lord, my lady, we have a more comfortable room for you to wait in. Follow me.”

They had been waiting for half an hour when Rose arrived. “What on earth has happened to Daisy?” she asked.

Becket told her about the visit to the shop and then said in a stifled voice, “Daisy has lost the baby.”

“How dreadful. How is she?”

“I don’t know. They say they will let me see her soon.”

“Where is Captain Cathcart?”

“He was guarding the villain when I left. When I get my Daisy out of here, I never want her to do any detecting again.”

“And that goes for you, too, Rose,” said Lady Polly angrily.

A doctor came in, a different one, and said, “Mr. Becket, you can have a few words with your wife now. She has had a bad concussion and lost a lot of blood.”

They all got to their feet. “I think perhaps Mr. Becket should see her alone,” he said.

Becket went off. Then Matthew Jarvis arrived. “I came, my lord, to see if I could be of any help.”

“Good man. Go and see whoever you have to and get the billing for a private room for Mrs. Becket. She has lost her baby. Find out the best consultants in Harley Street for her and tell them to examine her as soon as possible. Make arrangements for proper food and strengthening wine to be delivered to her room.”

“Very good, my lord.”

The doctor came back. “I think you can spend a few minutes with Mrs. Becket. Follow me.”

Daisy looked a small forlorn figure lying in the hospital bed. Her head was bandaged. Tears ran down Rose’s face. She sat down by the bedside and took Daisy’s hand.

Becket was on the other side of the bed, his face white with misery. “Do you know what they are saying, Rose?” whispered Daisy. “They say I may have lost the baby anyway. It was not a strong pregnancy.”

“Shhh, dear. You must get strong and well again.”

“Country air is what you need once you are out of here,” said Lady Polly bracingly. “We will make arrangements to have you removed to Stacey Court, you and your husband, that is.”

“You are very kind, my lady.”

The doctor and a nurse reappeared. “I think Mrs. Becket should be left to rest,” said the doctor.

“Find a room here for her husband,” ordered the earl. “My secretary is around somewhere. Make the arrangements with him.”

Back home, Rose thanked her parents for their care of Daisy. “I thought I never liked the gel,” said Lady Polly with a sigh. “Then I remembered how she had saved your life and how brave she had been. It was the least we could do.” And before Rose could thank them again, Lady Polly said briskly, “Now, to more important matters. How did you get on with Roger?”

“Very well.”

“And when are you seeing him again?”

“We are to take luncheon together tomorrow, but now, in view of Daisy’s predicament …”

“Piffle. She will be well looked after.”

Rose went up to her room, wondering what to do about Roger. Roger seemed to her to present a golden world of travel and respectability, far away from getting attacked in the East End. Her parents would be so pleased. She would never have to worry again about Harry’s fancy being taken by another woman, never again feel that burning misery she had experienced when he had promised to escort her to a ball or party and had failed to turn up. Marriage to Roger would mean travel and companionship. Marriage to Harry, on the other hand, held only the promise of hurt and danger.

Harry stretched his bad leg out in front of him as he sat in a chair opposite Kerridge. “So do you think we have our murderer?”

“I’m sure we have, although Jones is swearing blind he’s innocent of that.”

It had transpired that Jones had not sold the shop in the Mile End Road, but had turned it over to Daisy’s assailant, Pat Docherty. The shop had been used as a front. The police had wondered for quite a time where robberies from the ships at London’s docks had gone to. Now, they knew. The cellars below the shop had been crammed with stolen goods. Jones had worked as the fence. Docherty had caved in after his arrest and told them everything, including the names of all the other men who had worked for Jones.

“As Jones knew so many villains, it stands to reason that although he may not have done the murders himself, he could easily have got one of his ruffians to do them for him.”

“We’re fingerprinting the lot of them, although the gun that shot Dolores had Lady Rose’s fingerprints on it. Isn’t society amazing? If Lady Rose had been Miss Bloggs of Nowhere, she’d be ready for a hanging about now.”

“Don’t even think about it. I’m off to the hospital to see Daisy.”

Harry was told that Mrs. Becket was asleep and was conducted to the room given to Becket.