The London Blitz Murders (8 page)

Before Max’s posting, Stephen had also helped Agatha and her husband find suitable lodging in London, in the same Lawn Road Flats where Glanville himself lived. Stephen’s family, his wife and children, had long since been hastened off to Canada, for safety’s sake; and in the meantime, Stephen Glanville was having one romantic affair after another.

Stephen did not bother hiding the fact from Agatha, who had become his sole confidant in Max’s absence. He claimed these “flings” meant nothing to him, and were merely to console and comfort him in his family’s absence.

They had spent many evenings alone together; Agatha often cooked for Glanville. She found the Egyptologist quite good-looking and she remained relieved—and vaguely insulted—that he had never made a play for her.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to take the blame,” Stephen whispered.

“That’s because you’re so frequently guilty,” Agatha whispered back. She detected a frown from Irene, and motioned to Glanville to move a few seats over, so as not to disturb the director. Then: “Blame for what?”

“I’m afraid the presence of that fresh-faced fan from St. Wood’s Station is my fault… or at least, partly mine.”

Agatha glanced back at the handsome cadet, whose eyes were on the stage and the latest actress to trample on her words.

“Oh, he’s quite charming,” Agatha said. “Janet’s a very lucky girl.”

“Janet could do better than that cabbage,” Stephen said. “But never mind.”

Agatha turned and looked at her handsome friend. “You arranged for that cadet to have the afternoon off, didn’t you, Stephen?”

He was a higher-up in the Air Ministry, after all.

He grinned. “Guilty as charged…. Janet told me the kid was a huge fan of yours. I warned her that you didn’t like being fussed over. But Janet pleaded.”

“Please tell me you don’t have your sights on—”

“No! No. We’re just pals, Janet and I. But I don’t mind doing a favor for a pretty lady. One never knows with whom one might wind up stranded on a desert island.”

Agatha shook her head. “Stephen, no one combines cynicism and romanticism quite so effectively as you. A unique gift, you have there.”

“Thank you, my dear. That is…
darling
. We are at the the-ah-tah, you know.”

She again glanced at the cadet, entranced in the theatrical experience. “Well, I don’t mind meeting a loyal reader… and, anyway, I don’t have ‘fans,’ Stephen, I have readers… customers. I just don’t care for mobs of them. One on one, they can be quite delightful.”

“He is a good-looking bloke, I’ll give you that.”

“He’s young enough to be my son.”

“Ah, but he isn’t. Your son, I mean. So incest isn’t really an issue, is it?”

She looked sideways at him. “You’re a terrible man, Stephen. A true villain.”

“Then why do you love me?”

She shrugged. “There’s no explaining it.”

“So when do we begin?”

His voice had naughtiness in it—as if he were finally referring to an affair.

“Begin what?”

“Our book! Our Egyptian mystery.”

“I’ve told you before, Stephen—I never collaborate.”

“I don’t want to collaborate. I merely want to advise. What a wonderful surprise for Max to return and find you’ve set your latest thriller in ancient Egypt.”

They’d had this conversation endlessly, since Max departed.

And it ended as it always did: “We shall see, Stephen.”

Then she told Stephen about her research project with Sir Bernard Spilsbury.

“That sounds dangerous,” Stephen said skeptically.

“Don’t be silly. I may be going to crime scenes, is all—the danger’s long over, by the time the pathologist arrives.”

“Still… I don’t like it. I doubt Max would like it, either.”

“He would have the same reaction as you, dear Stephen: a knee jerk of chauvinism; and then I would point out that Sir Bernard’s research is not unlike his own… digging into the past. And that my work, at least as I see it right now, requires a research effort of my own. And I would have Max’s blessing.”

His dark eyes were tight beneath the dark eyebrows. “I don’t know, Agatha. Do please take care.”

“Who’s to say anything will come of it? This ‘Ripper’ may never strike again; or the two murders may not really be connected.”

Stephen shifted uncomfortably in the hard seat. “But if a new Jack the Ripper
is
stalking London, using the blackout as his fog… that’s inherently dangerous. You must reconsider.”

“I tell you what, Stephen. Stay away from the likes of Janet Cummins, and I’ll consider… reconsidering.”

“You’re a cruel woman, Mrs. Mallowan.”

“
Mrs. Mallowan!
” The seeming echo was Irene calling over to her. “Agatha… a moment, please?”

Agatha gave Stephen a scolding look, said, “Behave yourself while I’m gone,” and returned to the seat next to the director.

“I hate to interrupt your social hour,” Irene said, teasing good humor mixed in with the bitchiness. “But have you had the opportunity to pay any attention to these auditions?”

“I have indeed.”

“I’m on the fence. There are three I’m considering.”

“No, you’re not, Irene. You know very well the Ward girl is the best. The others are quite wretched. Miss Ward is the most attractive, and she speaks my lines well… or at any rate, well enough.”

Irene sighed. “I hate to give a part to one of Bertie’s ‘discoveries.’ ”

Agatha touched the director’s arm. “Bertie loves only you, Irene. Just as you love only the theater. Cast the best girl—which is to say, Miss Ward.”

The next sigh was colossal. “Well… I’ll read her again, at least.”

Nita Ward returned and by this time she and Larry Sullivan were old pals, laughing, touching each other. Agatha had never considered Larry to have a philandering bone in his body; but a fetching creature like Nita Ward, even if she had been around the block a few times, could probably locate that bone quite easily.

“The same two scenes, please,” Irene called. “Larry, again, please read both parts.”

And the theater filled itself with Agatha Christie’s lines, and Mrs. Mallowan was quite enchanted…

… at least until she began to wonder if her ten little whimsical murders… her murders for fun… had a place in a world at war, and a city “stalked” (as Stephen had aptly if archly put it) by a Ripper.

FEBRUARY 10, 1942

T
HE
W
EST
E
ND SEEMED RIFE
with men in uniform these days, but not every bloke in khaki got respect, much less the perks of wartime enjoyed by so many. Still, Inspector First Class did sound impressive, didn’t it?

And would have been, were Jack Rawlins a police officer, say, and not a reader of shilling-in-the-slot electrical meters for the light company
.

At thirty-six, an eighteen-year veteran among electrical “inspectors,” Rawlins had seen every bleeding thing in this business, from opulence to squalor, big fat women just stepped from the tub, lovely lithe ladies alighting from the shower (latter such instances were pressed in Rawlins’s mental memory book like flowers, while the former he strove to forget). Barking dogs, untended babies, passed-out drunks—what hadn’t he stumbled across in his duties for God, country and paycheck?

And in spite of the lack of respect for his branch of the service, Rawlins experienced his share of hazardous duty on these Blitz-torn streets, stepping over fire hoses, skirting craters, veering to avoid UXBs. When a bomb disrupted normal electrical services, was it a soldier or sailor who charged into the breech? Hell no! It was the fearless likes of Jack Rawlins
….

You might think working the Soho district would be glamorous or at least interesting. But the “foreign” quarter of the West End—enclosed by Wardour Street, Shaftesbury Avenue, Charing Cross Road and Oxford Street—was as dull by day as it was provocative by night. Right about now, just before eight-thirty in the morning, the snow-flecked sidewalks were largely empty, the streetwalkers of Soho tucked in their wee beds, doing nothing at all spectacular, and the array of unique nightclubs and exotic restaurants wouldn’t be open for business till much later in the day
.

In fact, Rawlins made a point of doing the flats above first, as it was difficult finding anyone in the clubs and restaurants till late morning, when they were either open for lunch or cleaning up for the coming night (and didn’t those “unique” nightclubs and “exotic” restaurants look disappointedly drab and dirty by the light of day)
.

The shops and businesses and such weren’t open yet, either, like this optician’s at 153 Wardour Street, which was next on his route. Rawlins headed up the narrow unlighted flight of stairs to a small landing and a quartet of doors to a trio of flats and a shared bathroom; a yellow hanging bulb threw a pool of light for him to stand in, as if he were on stage. He’d encountered the woman who lived alone there, now and then—a pleasant, pleasantly plumpish, and oh so pretty prostitute, name of Evelyn Oatley
.

Rawlins was a happily married man, however, and considered himself immune to Miss Oatley’s charms. Besides, what beauty offered to swap services with a meter reader to save a shilling? Not that he would have looked away, should he stumble onto the fetching fallen flower alighting from her bath
….

When he knocked, the door creaked open a few inches; he had not realized it was ajar
.

“Miss Oatley!” he called. “Here to read your meter, miss!”

No answer
.

Shrugging to himself, Rawlins stepped inside
.

The small one-room apartment was quite dark, the curtains still drawn. He tried the light switch, but the slot meter’s money had run out and the light did not turn on; seemed he’d come ’round none too soon
.

With no one home, Rawlins probably should have backed out of the flat and gone about his business. But the nape of his neck was prickling—it was not like Miss Oatley to allow her electricity to run out like that. She kept a small neat flat and was pretty enough to make her illicit way in the world, easily
.

Rawlins took the small electric torch from his tool belt and switched it on, just to check things out a bit…

… and the shaft of light fell immediately upon Miss Oatley
.

She lay sprawled on her back on her divan bed, head back and hanging over, clad only in a thin sheer nightgown, which was open to reveal her in nakedness, which might have been titillating to a red-blooded man like Rawlins
.

But it was not, though this sight would be pressed, involuntarily, into his mental memory book; and the electrician immediately realized he had not seen every bleeding thing, after all
….

Because the plumply pretty prostitute was quite dead, her throat slashed, the blood having run down to gather and coagulate into a terrible black pool
.

Heart in his throat, Jack Rawlins scurried out of the flat and down the steps onto the street, where he quickly found a bobby and reported what he’d discovered…

… not feeling much at all like one man in uniform talking to another
.

FOUR

DRESSED FOR MURDER

I
T SEEMED TO
A
GATHA THAT
Hampstead was quite the most rustic and sweetly antiquated of the suburban districts of Central London, blessedly free from major Blitz damage, with narrow lanes leading to sequestered spots so sheltered from the tumult of town that one could close one’s eyes halfway and imagine being in a country village.

Built in a haphazardly irregular fashion on the hill sloping up to the Heath, Hampstead would have been perhaps the most nightmarish place in the city for her symmetry-obsessed detective, Hercule Poirot. But spinster Jane Marple would have loved it—wide High Street with its old brick houses adapted to shops and businesses, an inviting maze of courtyards and passageways and byways, streets lined with elms shading country-style cottages with perfectly manicured front lawns.