Edwardian Murder Mystery 02; Hasty Death

∨ Hasty Death ∧

Two

O, how full of briers is this working-day world!

William Shakespeare

The alarm clock rang shrilly at six on Monday morning. Rose felt she had not slept at all. Daisy snored, Daisy cuddled up to her during the night, making Rose feel suffocated.

“Wake up!” said Rose. “Time to get ready.” Shivering, she lit the gas fire and the gaslight in its bracket by the door. “I’ll use the bathroom first.”

They had both had baths the night before, fearing they would not get a chance in the morning, but Rose wanted hot water to wash her face. She reflected as she lit the geyser over the bath, which exploded into life with a roar, that two pennies in the meter just to wash one’s face was already beginning to feel like wanton extravagance. The bathroom was a dismal place. The bath itself was a deep coffin of a thing, but fortunately it was now clean, she and Daisy having had to scrub it out the night before. She washed her face and then filled the jug from the bedroom with hot water and climbed back up the stairs.

“Brought you some hot water,” said Rose.

“What for?” asked Daisy. “We washed last night. Help me with my stays.”

Rose tied Daisy’s stay ribbons and then hurriedly began to dress. “The bank’s in Lombard Street, Daisy. How do we get there?”

“We walk.”

“But it’s so far!” wailed Rose.

“I’ll find out about omnibuses, or maybe we can get an underground train.”

“I know,” said Rose. “We’ll take a hack and get him to stop just short of the bank. Just this once.”

“Oh, all right,” said Daisy. “But we have to try to live within our means.”

♦

There were two types of typists in the City – the working girls who were struggling to better themselves, and the middle-class ladies who worked for pin-money.

The senior ‘girl’ was Mrs Danby, a thin, acidulous woman in her forties. She was middle-class and ruled her small staff of four typists with a rod of iron. Mrs Danby was not looking forward to the arrival of two newcomers, even though it was increasing her empire.

Mr Drevey had told her they were to be put in a separate room and made to type out the entries from the old ledgers. Mrs Danby pointed out that the ledgers were filled with meticulous copperplate handwriting and therefore did not need to be typed and the usually courteous Mr Drevey had snapped at her to do as she was told.

The doorman informed her of the newcomers’ arrival and she swept out in the hall to meet them; the only thing modifying her temper was the rustle of her new and expensive taffeta underskirt.

The two newcomers stood before her, irreproachably dressed. “I am in charge of you,” she said, a surprisingly loud voice emanating from her thin figure and thin trap of a mouth.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Daisy, holding out a gloved hand. “I am Miss Daisy Levine.”

Mrs Danby ignored the hand. Common-genteel, she thought. Her eyes turned on Rose, who was standing patiently.

“And you are Miss Summer?”

“Yes,” said Rose calmly, fixing Mrs Danby with a blue stare.

“Come with me.” Mrs Danby rustled off in front of them. She threw open a mahogany door revealing a small room furnished with a table, two chairs, a desk, and two typewriters and a pile of ledgers and box files. There was a small gas fire with a broken piece of asbestos which purred and hissed like some infuriated household cat. On the mantelpiece was a black marble clock with a yellow face. By the long window stood a hat stand.

“You are to type the entries in these ledgers,” instructed Mrs Danby, “and when you have completed each page, you will put it in one of these box files. You, Miss Summer, will start with the 1901 ledger and Miss Levine with the 1900 ledger. Take off your coats and hats and begin immediately.”

Rose and Daisy took off their coats, hats and gloves, and sat at their typewriters, facing each other.

“We need typing paper, if you please,” said Rose.

Rose had intended to modify her accent but she had taken a dislike to Mrs Danby and so her tones were the glacial, staccato ones of her class.

Mrs Danby opened the door and shouted, “Miss Judd!”

A small girl with a head of black curls appeared. “Typing paper for these two new workers,” ordered Mrs Danby.

She turned away. Miss Judd winked at Rose and Daisy and shot off to return in a few minutes with a large packet of typing paper.

“I will now watch you to assess your skill,” said Mrs Danby.

Rose and Daisy, like two machines, each put a sheet of paper in their typewriter, found the right ledgers and began to type with great speed and ease.

“I will leave you now,” said Mrs Danby majestically.

“One moment, Mrs Danby,” said Rose. “At what time are we allowed to take our luncheon?”

Mrs Danby longed to tell them that they were to work right through the day but feared that the haughty Miss Summer might report her to Mr Drevey.

“Luncheon is at one o’ clock until two-thirty,” she said.

“Blimey,” said Daisy when Mrs Danby had left. “It’s better than I thought. They do themselves well here. A whole hour and a half for lunch!”

“This is make work,” said Rose. “There is no need for these ledgers to be typed.”

“May as well get on with it,” sighed Daisy. “If we’re awfully good, they might give us some real work.”

They worked hard and their shoulders were sore by lunchtime.

“I need to use the you-know-what,” said Daisy.

“There will be one at King William Street underground station. I read about it in the newspaper.” said Rose. “I do not want to see more of Mrs Danby than I need to.”

As both were still wearing the undergarments that ladies wore, they spent a considerable time in the toilets.

For the fashionable lady of the day wore an incredible amount of undergarments. To begin with, there was a garment known as combinations: a kind of vest and pants in one piece, made of fine wool, or a mixture of wool and silk, its legs reaching to the knee. It had a back panel which unbuttoned below the waist. Over this went the corset, usually made of pink coutil, boned and shaped to provide the fashionable hourglass figure. Then came the camisole, a kind of underblouse that buttoned down the front, was gathered at the waist and trimmed with lace round the neck and the diminutive puffed sleeves.

The knickers had lace frills at the knee and they were made from very fine material such as lawn, nainsook or nun’s veiling. Silk stockings were clipped to the corset. Then the large round petticoat was placed in a circle on the floor and stepped into.

The only advantage of all these layers of clothes, thought Daisy, when she and Rose emerged once more into the freezing air, was that they kept you warm. Rose had been pleasingly impressed by her first visit to a public toilet and thought it well worth the charge of one penny. It was spotlessly clean and all shining white tiles and polished brass and the female attendant had been courteous.

Daisy stopped at a tobacco kiosk and asked the girl for a packet of cigarettes and directions to somewhere cheap to eat. She told them there was a Lyons a little way along Cheapside.

“You’re never going to smoke!” exclaimed Rose.

“I feel like it,” said Daisy stubbornly.

In Lyons teashop, Rose exclaimed over the cheapness of the items on the menu. “Just look, Daisy, meals are only threepence or fourpence. We could eat out every day! What will you have? There’s poached egg on macaroni, Welsh rarebit, or sardines on toast.”

“I’ll have poached eggs on macaroni,” said Daisy. Rose ordered Welsh rarebit.

“That’s better,” sighed Daisy when they were finished. “We didn’t have time for breakfast.”

“It wasn’t much to eat,” said Rose, looking around the restaurant and thinking that at home she would have had a choice of eight courses at least. “It’s not as if it’s expensive. I never saw this one – braised loin of mutton with carrots. Only sixpence, too.” So they had the mutton with bread and butter, two slices at a penny each. And when they had finished that, they rounded off their meal with coffee, twopence a cup, and apple dumpling, four pennies each. When they finished and Daisy was complaining that she would need to loosen her stays when they got back to the office, they left the cosiness of the teashop with its white-and-gold frontage feeling sleepy with all they had eaten.

As they headed back to the office, the day was so dark that the street lamps were being lit, a man with a long brass pole moving from lamp to lamp and leaving a chain of lights behind him.

The air was not only cold but smelt of innumerable coal fires.

Mrs Danby was there promptly at two-thirty to make sure they were at their desks and then retreated.

♦

After an hour, the door opened and a young man came in. He had a thick head of hair, liberally oiled with bear grease, a long nose and large mouth, and wore the City uniform of black coat and striped trousers.

He affected surprise when he saw them and said, “Wrong room. But I’d better introduce myself. I am Gerald King.”

“I’m Daisy Levine and my friend is Miss Rose Summer.”

Gerald perched on the edge of the desk, his eyes on Rose.

“You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Very new,” said Daisy. “First day.”

“You enjoying it?”

“Not much.”

“Doesn’t your friend have a voice, Miss Levine?”

“I do,” said Rose, “when I am not being kept off my work.”

Gerald retreated. But during the afternoon, several bank clerks found an excuse to drop in.

“You shouldn’t freeze them all off,” complained Daisy. “One of them might buy us dinner.”

“You are not in the music hall now,” said Rose severely.

“No, I ain’t,” replied Daisy gloomily.

♦

On Thursday, Mr Drevey went down to the country ‘on business’, which meant he was escaping to attend a house party.

On that same Thursday, one of the directors, Mr Beveridge, sent for Mrs Danby, and told her that his secretary was ill and he needed someone to take dictation.

“I will bring someone to you directly,” said Mrs Danby.

She decided to select Rose. Rose was too hoity-toity. She would have to confess she could not take dictation and that would bring her down a peg.

But Rose merely asked for a notebook, and that having been supplied followed Mrs Danby up the broad staircase to Mr Beveridge’s office on the second floor.

Mr Beveridge was a fat jolly man. Rose was initially unnerved because she was sure she had met him before but he did not seem to recognize her.

Two people were disappointed at the end of the day. Daisy because men popping into the room took one look, saw Rose wasn’t there and retreated. And Mrs Danby because Mr Beveridge had given her a glowing report of Rose’s prowess and of her excellent Pitman shorthand.

By Friday evening, Daisy thought she would die of boredom. The evening and weekend lay ahead. It was all right for Rose. She would probably sit reading.

Daisy’s days as a chorus girl at Butler’s Theatre began to take on a rosy glow. She missed the jokes and the raucous company. And men had found her attractive when there was no Rose to compete with.

In the evening, they cooked sausages over the little gas ring by the fire. Then Rose settled down to read.

“Pity we’ve got to work tomorrow morning,” complained Daisy.

“Only until twelve-thirty, then we’re free,” said Rose, looking up. “We can go to the British Museum.”

Daisy thought rapidly. “I might go and see my family if you don’t mind being left on your own.”

“Don’t promise them all your money. We get paid tomorrow.”

“Naw. Just say hullo.”

Next day, Rose was exhilarated to receive her first pay packet. But she made a mental note to ask for more money if she was going to continue to be employed as a secretary.

She said goodbye to Daisy outside the bank. “I’ll be back this evening,” promised Daisy.

Rose had discovered an omnibus which would take her to Holborn and from there it was an easy walk to her diggings. Conscious of the need for thrift, she paid for a third-class ticket. She did wish people did not smell so bad. Not that the upper classes were so terribly keen on baths, but they did bathe occasionally. Rose took out a small lace handkerchief scented with Parma Violet and held it to her nose.

♦

Daisy felt she was breathing the air of freedom when she stood outside Butler’s Theatre in Whitechapel. She was back home among familiar sights and sounds. She had no intention of visiting her family. Although she sent them money when she could, she could not forget her last visit the year before, when her drunken father had tried to assault her.

Daisy was studying the posters when a male voice said. “Think of going in, miss? It’s a good show.”

Daisy swung round. “Why, it’s Billy Gardon!” she exclaimed.

Billy goggled at the sedate little figure in front of him. “Daisy, is that you?”

“It’s me all right.”

When Billy, a comedian, had last seen Daisy, she had brassy blonde hair and thick make-up, not to mention garish clothes.

“What happened to you?”

Daisy grinned. “It’s a long story.”

“Tell you what,” said Billy. “I got this little flat at the top of the theatre. I’m not on till this evening. Let’s you and me go up there and have a glass of hot gin.”

Daisy hesitated only a moment. Telling herself that she’d never had any trouble from Billy before, she let him lead her round the side, through the stage door and up through the inner recesses of the theatre.

She could hear someone on stage singing ‘When Father Papered the Parlour’ and the audience joining in the chorus.

Slapping it here, slapping it there, paste and paper everywhere,

Mother was stuck to the ceiling, the kids were stuck to the floor.

I’ve never seen such a bloomin’ family so stuck up before!

“Here we are,” said Billy, panting a little as he came to a halt before a door at the top. He swung it open and ushered Daisy in.

She found herself in a frowsty little room. There was a bed against one wall with the blankets spilling over onto the floor. A table against the window was covered with the remains of breakfast. It was flanked by two kitchen chairs and a dead aspidistra in a brass bowl on the window-ledge. The walls were covered in music-hall posters.

Billy cleared the table by lifting up the four corners of the cloth, bundling everything up and putting it in a corner. There was a coal fire spilling ash onto the grate. “Soon get a fire going.” Billy raked out the ashes, giving Daisy a view of his large plaid-covered backside. Billy was a thickset middle-aged man with a large walrus moustache. His hair was dyed black and his face was red from too much drinking.

When the fire was lit, he thrust a kettle full of water on it, and then opened a cupboard and brought out a bottle of gin and two glasses.

“We’ll have some hot water for the gin in a trice,” said Billy. “Now, let me look at you. What you been and gone and done to yourself?”

He was a good listener. Daisy would not confess to herself that she still found Rose’s company rather intimidating. The class lines were strictly drawn. To want to move out of your station was flying in the face of Providence. Everyone knew that God put you in your appointed station.

So it was a relief to be back with what she naïvely thought of as ‘her own kind’. Mellowed by hot gin – several glasses of it – she told Billy everything, only forgetting to say that Rose’s parents had gone abroad.

“So this earl’s daughter’s living in this hostel! Where did you say it was?”

“It’s at Number Twenty-two Bryant Court in Bloomsbury. Fact is, I’m amazed she can stand it after all she’s been used to.”

“Here, have another gin.”

“Shouldn’t really. Still, it’s a cold day.”

“Run out o’ gin. Be back in a mo’.”

Billy raced down the stairs and round to the pub with the empty bottle, which he got filled with gin. Then he went into the chemist’s next door to it and bought a bottle of laudanum. His brain was racing. Here was his passport to freedom. No more shows, day in and day out. He was getting on in life.

♦

That evening, Rose was feeling tired. She was also hungry, but there was no sign of Daisy and she wondered whether she should start eating without her.

At nine o’ clock, there was a knock on her door. Rose opened it. Miss Harringey stood there. “There is a person downstairs to see you.”

Rose arched her eyebrows. “I do not see persons, Miss Harringey. What does he want?”

“I do not approve of gentlemen callers. Would you be so good as to descend and send him on his way.”

Rose followed her down the stairs. “He is in my sanctum,” said Miss Harringey, throwing open the door.

Rose stared at Billy, from his dyed greased hair down over his plaid suit with the brown velvet lapels to his brown boots, and then her eyes travelled back up again to his face.

“Yes?”

“I am Mr Billy Gardon. You may have heard of me.”

“No. State your business.”

“It’s a delicate matter,” said Billy, looking at Miss Harringey. “It’s about Daisy.”

“Step outside with me,” said Rose. “Thank you, Miss Harringey.”

She led Billy out into a small hall and closed the door behind her on Miss Harringey’s curious face.

Miss Harringey opened the door a crack. She heard Billy saying, “Miss Levine’s been taken ill. She’s at the theatre. I got a flat there, up top. She’s asking for you.”

“I will get my coat and come with you directly,” said Rose.

♦

Captain Harry Cathcart was enjoying his breakfast on Sunday morning when his manservant, Becket, announced, “Mr Matthew Jarvis to see you on urgent business.”

“Mr Jarvis?”

“The Earl of Hadshire’s secretary.”

Harry felt a sudden stab of unease. “Show him in.”

Matthew strode into the room, his normally pleasant face white with strain. “I came to you directly. I normally don’t work on Sundays, particularly with his lordship being away…”

“Sit down, Mr Jarvis. Coffee?”

“No, thank you. I decided to work this morning because I planned to visit my mother in the country tomorrow. I was going through Saturday’s post and found this. It had been delivered by hand.”

Harry took the cheap envelope and extracted a piece of lined paper. He read: “If you want to see your daughter again, bring five thousand guineas to Jack Straw’s Castle in Hampstead on Monday at two in the afternoon. Don’t tell no one or she’s dead.”

“Jack Straw’s Castle – that’s that pub on Hampstead Heath, isn’t it?” asked Harry.

“Yes. Oh, what are we to do?” wailed Matthew. “If the police are informed, it will all come out that Lady Rose was working for a living and she will be socially damned for the rest of her life!”

“Leave it with me,” said Harry. “Becket, get my hat and coat and come with me.”

♦

“So,” said Harry, when he and Becket were confronting Miss Harringey half an hour later, “you will understand that as Miss Rose’s brother, I am anxious to find her. I have but recently returned from Australia.”

“Some vulgar man called on her. Miss Summer took him into the hall and closed the door on me. As I am a lady, I do not listen at doors.”

“It must be very hard for you, taking care of these young ladies who lodge here,” said Harry.

“I do my best, sir.”

Harry slowly pulled out a rouleau of guineas and extracted five. He then let the gold coins slide slowly from hand to hand. “I am prepared to pay for information. Perhaps one of the other ladies…?”

Staring at the gold, Miss Harringey said, “I did manage to hear a few words.”

“Which were?”

“I wasn’t really listening, but they had left my door open a crack. He said he was Billy Gardon. He said Daisy had been taken ill at the theatre. He said he had a flat at the top of the theatre.”

What a lot of information for someone who wasn’t really listening, thought Harry cynically. He placed the five guineas on the edge of a lace-covered bamboo table. It must be Butler’s Music Hall. Daisy used to work there.

♦

Rose and Daisy were lying side by side on the narrow bed, bound and gagged. Tears of weakness spilled down Rose’s cheeks. Her thoughts had only been for Daisy when she had entered the room ahead of Billy and had seen the still figure of Daisy lying on the bed. As she bent over her, Billy had charged and knocked her flat on the bed over Daisy’s body and, pinning her down with his great bulk, had tied her wrists. Then he had gagged her and tied her ankles as well and shoved her on the bed after he had bound and gagged the drugged lady’s maid as well.

Daisy kept twisting round to look at her with pleading eyes, but Rose was so furious with her she would not even acknowledge her presence.

Poor Daisy was feeling frantic. Billy didn’t know the earl and countess were abroad. What would happen when he didn’t get a reply? She had forgotten about the earl’s secretary. Rose would fire her after this. She would need to return to the old life – the former life with all its poverty and dirt and squalor that she had so conveniently forgotten. If only they could get out of this, if only Rose would forgive her, then she would get back to that bank and type till her fingers fell off with sheer gratitude.

Far below from the street came the sounds of hawkers and the rumbling of carts over the cobbles, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, and an occasional burst of drunken laughter.

If only I could save us, thought Daisy, then maybe Rose would forgive me. Billy had kept away from them as much as possible. He had not stayed in the frowsty little room during Saturday night. He had visited them on Sunday morning and had lit one candle because the morning was dark and foggy. Thoughtful of the bastard, sneered a voice in Daisy’s head.

Then, as she looked at the candle, she had an idea. She rolled over Rose’s body and fell on the floor. She rolled across the floor until she was at the wall and, manoeuvring herself until her back was against the wall, she began to push herself upright. Then she jumped across the room to where the candle stood burning on a rickety table. Jumping round until her back was facing it, she stretched her bound wrists over the flame. The pain was excruciating but Daisy held her wrist steady until the rope began to singe and then burn. At last she was able to free her wrists. She tore off her gag and bent and untied her ankles.

She rushed to the bed and ungagged and untied Rose. “Don’t say a word till I use the chamber-pot,” said Daisy, pulling that receptacle out from under the bed. She squatted down while Rose crawled stiffly out of bed. “I bin holdin’ it in all night,” said Daisy, reverting to her former Cockney accent under the strain of it all.

“How do we get out of here?” asked Rose coldly.

Daisy tried the door.

“It’s locked,” she wailed.

“He’s coming back,” said Rose, hearing footsteps on the stairs.

Daisy seized a frying-pan from a shelf and stood by the door. “I’ll whack the bleeder wiff this the minute he comes in.”

There was a banging on the door and a familiar voice shouted, “Open up or I’ll break the door down.”

“Captain Cathcart!” shouted Rose. “Break the door down. He may be back any minute.”

The door heaved and shuddered as Harry threw his weight on it and it finally crashed open.

Rose flung herself into his arms and then almost immediately withdrew, her face flaming. “How did you know where we were?” she asked.

“Becket will explain. Becket, take the ladies to my home and telephone Mr Jarvis to bring round a change of clothes for Lady Rose and for Miss Levine. I will wait for this Billy Gardon.”

“I can’t see our coats or hats,” said Rose, looking around.

“Probably sold them,” said Daisy.

Becket hustled them down the stairs to where two urchins were guarding the captain’s car. He tucked them in with fur rugs and then got into the driving seat.

There was a long silence and then Daisy said in a little voice, “I’m sorry.”

“What came over you, you stupid girl?” said Rose in glacial tones.

Daisy could only hang her head. Her wrists were so painful, she wanted to scream.

“I will set you up somewhere,” continued Rose, “and then never want to see you again. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, my lady,” said Daisy. She wanted to cry, but she had cried so much during the night that she felt there were no tears left.

At Harry’s home in Water Street in Chelsea, Becket made tea for them. Daisy whispered to him, “Can I sit in the kitchen? And have you anything for my wrists?” She held them out.

“Come with me,” said Becket. He led her downstairs to the kitchen and searched in a first-aid box until he found some burn ointment, gently applied it and bandaged her wrists.

“How did this happen?” he asked. “Did that monster…?”

“Naw,” said Daisy wearily. She told him about burning the rope from her wrists.

“Lady Rose should be kissing your feet, not firing you,” exclaimed Becket.

“I can’t blame her. She’s had a bad shock. That’s why I’d better stay down here where I belong.”

♦

Billy Gardon nipped up the stairs to his theatre flat, dreaming of riches to come.

He stopped short when he saw the door hanging on its hinges. He rushed into the room.

A man stepped out from behind the broken door, swung him round and smashed a fist into his face.

Billy fell on the floor and, nursing his jaw, stared up into the blazing eyes of his attacker. He saw a tall well-dressed man with a handsome face. The glaring eyes were black and hooded. Billy thought he looked like the devil himself.

“On your feet!” roared Harry. “You blackmailing little worm!”

Billy crawled onto his knees and then stood shakily on his feet, nursing his jaw.

“It was only a bit o’ a joke, guv,” he whimpered.

Harry pulled a chair up and sat down. He looked broodingly at Billy. If he turned him over to the police, he felt sure it would leak out to the newspapers. It would come out that Rose had been working as a typist and consorting with an ex-chorus girl from one of London’s lowest music halls and her social future would be ruined. And surely a few more weeks at the bank and living in that dreadful hostel would bring her to her senses.

He came to a decision. “Pack up,” he ordered. “My man will call on you tomorrow with a steamship ticket to Australia – steerage. If he does not find you – let’s say at ten tomorrow morning – I will go to the police. At the least you will get a life sentence of hard labour for this. You will keep your mouth shut. You will not tell anyone. I have spies all over London,” lied Harry. “How do you think I found you so easily?”

“I’ll go, guv, honest. Just give me a chance.”

“Very well. But if any word of this gets out, I shall find you and kill you, and then, I think, report you to the police, who will bury you in quicklime. I do not see why the state should pay for your incarceration.”

When Harry returned home, Becket informed him that Lady Rose was taking a bath and putting on clean clothes. Miss Levine was in the kitchen – “But I think a doctor should be called to look at her wrists.”

“Why?”

Becket told him how Daisy had engineered the escape.

“Call a doctor. What is Daisy doing in the kitchen?”

“Lady Rose says she wants nothing more to do with her.”

“Let’s see about that.”