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Death in Bayswater Page 17


  ‘And they are not?’

  ‘No, they’re eyeing the maid, who has a saucy way, but the mistress thinks it’s all for her.’

  ‘Does Professor Pounder still give exhibitions of pugilism at the Piccadilly Club?’

  ‘Sometimes. I’ll ask him if he knows anything about this Pargeter and the Bold Bloods. They don’t sound very bold to me. More like a rabble of boys who’d faint dead away at the first sight of real danger.’

  ‘One of them jumped off a bridge. Wasn’t that in the newspapers recently?’

  Sarah gave another laugh, and went to get a copy of the Illustrated Police News from two weeks previously. One of the smaller pictures on the front cover was entitled ‘Strange Prank of a Viscount’s Son’ and showed a youth making a leap from Blackfriars Bridge. Since the tide was out at the time, he had not been swept away by the river and drowned but had had a soft and unpleasantly sticky landing in the deep mud at the shoreline, from where he had been rescued unhurt by a policeman. He had explained that he had had no intention of destroying himself, such an attempt being a criminal offence, but had committed the act for a bet. He had later been bound over in court to keep the peace, and removed by his irate father.

  Frances recalled that Chas and Barstie were members of the Piccadilly Club. They had joined it at her request, since she had wanted trusted agents in place to keep watch on suspicious residents, and the club would not admit youths under the age of sixteen to its membership, neither were women allowed through its doors. Chas and Barstie had found it a useful place for attracting business, but she wondered if they still frequented the club, since it had an undeniably shady reputation and nowadays they wished to be considered respectable. Barstie was aspiring to the hand of a lady whose father needed convincing of his spotless reputation and business acumen, and Chas was still casting about for an heiress or a widow of means. He liked to save time by courting them in triplicate, the essential part of his scheme being that each should never know of the other two. Frances decided to go and see them.

  The office of the Bayswater Design and Advertising Co. Ltd was unusually tidy, and the directors were working quietly at their desks. They looked like men who were expecting to be visited by the police at any moment.

  As Frances was ushered in Chas jumped to his feet and offered her a chair. ‘We are very grateful to you for your warning, dear lady, since we are increasingly becoming valued agents for the police, who consider us to be model citizens. Regarding that unpleasant fellow with the knife, they have descriptions, they have drawings, they have information, and now it only wants to have the man himself behind bars.’

  ‘Since you are both so very respectable nowadays I assume that you are no longer members of the Piccadilly Club?’

  The directors glanced at each other.

  ‘There was a time,’ admitted Barstie reluctantly, after a long pause, ‘when we were starting out in our endeavours and we had to look everywhere for custom and take what we could find. We could not afford to confine ourselves to the most salubrious places. Some of the associates we made at that time are men we still do business with, and many of them still prefer to manage their transactions at the Piccadilly Club.’

  Chas nodded agreement. ‘Clubs are places where men meet and talk about money. Sometimes they talk about other things, but it all comes down to money in the end. Everything always does.’

  ‘They are the best places to find out who has the money and who needs it,’ added Barstie.

  ‘So you are still members? You still go there regularly?’

  They glanced at each other again.

  ‘I see that you do. Have you encountered a young man called Pargeter who lodges there? He is often in the company of other youths who call themselves the Bold Bloods.’

  Both men gave a little snort of derision, and Chas grinned. ‘Ah yes, they have made something of a name for themselves in certain quarters. Not a good name, in fact a very bad one, but a name nonetheless. Pargeter, if he is the one with the curled hair, and I think he is, is the biggest scapegrace of them all. He borrows money from any man foolish enough to lend it to him and boasts to everyone that he will soon marry a fortune.’

  ‘There is a real danger that he will do so, and it is something I wish to prevent, since his motives are far from honourable. I am acting for a respectable gentleman whose daughter is enamoured of this Pargeter. I think she finds his discreditable behaviour more interesting than the honesty of other men. She probably knows all about his idle pranks but I need to find out something more, something that will make her see that he is not to be trusted.’

  Chas looked thoughtful. ‘And you say that the father has money?’

  ‘He does.’ Frances showed him the portrait of Miss Digby.

  ‘Ah. A great deal of money, I assume.’

  ‘I would like you to consider methods of opening this misguided lady’s eyes to Mr Pargeter’s faults.’

  The two looked serious. ‘It would be easy to entrap him in some scheme or other,’ mused Chas, and Barstie nodded.

  ‘I am sure you are right, as he is not considered intelligent. But if the lady suspects that he is the victim of a plot then it might make her all the more determined to have him. She will be his champion against adversity, and then it will be impossible to part them. Would you be willing for now simply to watch him and gather information? I can understand that you would not wish to become members of the Bold Blood fraternity, but you would be in a position to learn about their plans. They do not seem to be the most discreet individuals and might well talk about their exploits and what they intend to try next.’

  This course of proceeding was agreed upon and Frances, declining an offer of refreshment, took her leave and mounted the stairs to see Tom Smith, who she found in conference with Ratty.

  ‘What c’n we do fer you today, Miss Doughty?’ asked Tom with a smile.

  Frances recounted the tale of the unfortunate passion that existed between Enid Digby and young Mr Pargeter, and Mr Digby’s fears that they might run away together. She handed over the portrait of Miss Digby and supplied her address. ‘I would like someone to follow her when she goes out with her maid or a friend. See if they meet in secret with Pargeter and if possible overhear their conversation. If they do make plans to run away I will need to know at once. It is thought that the maid is carrying messages to arrange these meetings.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Ratty, staring at the portrait. ‘An’ if she gives up on the marryin’ idea she c’n always go in fer the pugilistics, ’cos from the look of ’er she’d be a champion.’

  ‘I also wish you to collect as much information as you can concerning Mr Pargeter. Mr Digby is hoping to discover something that will make his daughter reject him.’

  ‘I know the gent,’ said Tom. ‘All curls an’ fancy clothes. Lives at the Piccadilly. We sometimes run messages for ’im. To a Mr Green, only that’s not ’is real name; runs an off-course betting book. Don’t the lady know ’e’s a wrong ’un?’

  ‘If she does, she probably imagines she can reform him. Tom, I hope you are not assisting Mr Pargeter in committing a crime.’

  ‘I’m just the messenger. Might be anything in the notes. I don’t read ’em.’

  ‘Of course not. Well, if you should accidentally see what is in one of these notes, you must let me know.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Frances did not know how many people the meeting of Mr Candy’s Bayswater Vigilance Committee might attract and had been wondering if he had been a little too optimistic in hiring Westbourne Hall for the event when a far smaller room suitable for perhaps two or three hundred persons would have been better suited. She was astonished, therefore, to arrive at the venue with Sarah and Professor Pounder to find the hall teeming with men and women of all ages and levels of society, busily talking about the terrible crimes and what could be done about them. A long table had been furnished with tea urns and a team of ladies were handing out steaming cups of tea as fast as they were abl
e, while others were putting printed leaflets on the chairs that had been set out in rows for the audience. She was pleased to see that everyone who entered the hall was being met at the door and asked to sign a petition.

  At the far end of the hall, the musicians who had been performing on the platform were clearing away their instruments, the lady and gentleman vocalists were descending the steps, and chairs were being put in place for the guests of honour.

  Frances wondered if Effie Price was there but it was hard to see such a small slight figure in the great throng. She thought on reflection that the girl was more likely to be at home looking after her mother.

  ‘Looks like half of Bayswater is here,’ said Sarah.

  ‘I expect we largely have Mr Candy to thank for that; and then of course Miss Gilbert and Miss John have rallied their ladies.’

  Mr Gillan of the Bayswater Chronicle approached, clutching a notebook and pencil. ‘Miss Doughty, will you be addressing the meeting?’ He had the bright enthusiastic look of a newsman surrounded by news.

  ‘I will, and I shall expect to see a full report in the Chronicle.’

  ‘Oh I can promise that, our readers are always interested in you.’

  ‘To ensure accuracy I have my speech already written down, and I have brought a copy for you. That will save you a great deal of shorthand.’ She handed him a sheet of paper, which he accepted with some surprise. ‘Is Mr Ibbitson not with you tonight?’

  ‘Oh he’s off on another story. He has a sweetheart now, you know,’ added Gillan teasingly. He looked carefully at Frances to see if he could spy any signs of jealousy and seeing none, went on, ‘I suppose you have met Mr Pollaky?’

  ‘No, we have never met, in fact I am not sure I have ever seen his portrait, so I would not recognise him.’

  ‘Ah, well I have interviewed him and I can see that he is already here, so I could introduce you if you like. That would be a wonderful thing for our readers, the meeting of two great detectives. I am sure when the criminals of Bayswater see that you have compared notes and are working on the case together they will take fright and run away.’

  ‘If that was true then you would have nothing to put in your paper.’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, there are always the romances and nasty accidents. We’re never short of news.’

  ‘I don’t suppose,’ said Frances impulsively, as her thoughts returned to the vexed problem of her own family mysteries, ‘that you are acquainted with the names Vernon Salter and Lancelot Dobree?’

  ‘Should I be?’ asked Gillan.

  ‘I really can’t say.’

  ‘Well I never heard of the first one, but the other one does sound familiar. Yes, that’s it, Dobree, rich old gent, philanthropist. Gets listed in the papers with the subscribers to charities. Know anything against him?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Well let me know when you do. But come with me, I can see Mr Pollaky over there.’

  Professor Pounder decided to take a stroll about the hall to take note of any potential trouble. There was something about his tall, calm, quiet muscularity that inspired confidence and respect, and wherever he walked, he created a little pool of order as everyone who fell under his gaze decided to behave themselves.

  Frances and Sarah accompanied Mr Gillan to where a serious-looking man in his fifties with a fine moustache was standing alone sipping tea and surveying the scene. He had the carefully cultivated air of someone merely interested in the company, but there was shrewdness behind the casual demeanour, and he appeared to see and take note of everything.

  ‘Mr Pollaky,’ said Gillan, ‘it is very good to see you here, sir. I am sure we will all benefit from your observations.’

  ‘Thank you Mr Gillan,’ said Pollaky. He did not, thought Frances, look quite the Englishman, although she had heard that he had lived in London for many years, and his accent too, though elegantly English, also had a hint of middle Europe.

  ‘Allow me to introduce you to two excellent ladies. This is Miss Frances Doughty of whom I am sure you have heard, and this is her assistant the no less doughty Miss Smith. I expect you will have a great deal to talk about,’ added Gillan hopefully, opening his notebook.

  Mr Pollaky raised his eyebrows, and set aside his cup of tea. He extended his hand first to Frances and then Sarah, with great politeness, and made a little bow. ‘Miss Doughty, Miss Smith, it is my very great honour to meet you. I have, of course, read about your exploits in the newspapers. But say – does Mr Gillan tell all?’

  Frances smiled. ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Mr Gillan is under strict instructions from me to tell the truth, but I fear he does sometimes paint it with a very colourful brush. Of course he is only able to print what I feel I ought to tell him,’ she added mischievously.

  ‘And Miss Smith, I have heard much of your abilities to – ah – persuade criminals to give themselves up. Having now made your acquaintance I feel sure that nothing I have heard was an exaggeration.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it,’ muttered Gillan.

  ‘Is it true that you are investigating the terrible murders that have taken place in Bayswater?’ asked Pollaky of the lady detectives with a worried frown. ‘I must say I would not ask any of my agents to do such a dangerous thing.’

  Frances was quick to reassure him. ‘That report was a misunderstanding. I am acting for the family of Jim Price who was recently convicted of the murder of Martha Miller; a murder that I feel was perpetrated not by him but the man who is currently reducing Bayswater to a state of terror. I have been looking for a witness who might exonerate him. Unfortunately a young inexperienced newspaperman thought that I was looking for the real killer and said so in the paper. It has drawn a great deal of attention to me that I could well have done without. There have been correspondents standing outside my front door waiting for an announcement ever since.’

  ‘Well we have to do what we can to get the news,’ said Gillan defensively. ‘But I’m sure none of the men who annoyed you were from the Chronicle.’

  ‘Did one of your men come back soaking wet and smelling of dishwater?’ asked Sarah.

  Gillan looked decidedly uncomfortable and Pollaky chuckled.

  Frances was suddenly struck by a thought and decided to take the opportunity that presented itself. ‘Mr Pollaky, if I might be so bold, I would like to ask your advice.’

  He looked solemn. ‘Ah well I do have a scale of charges for that. My experience has been gained over very many years and does not come cheap.’

  ‘Whatever you think is appropriate.’

  He laughed. ‘Ask away Miss Doughty,’ he said gallantly, ‘meeting you is payment enough!’

  She smiled at the compliment. ‘You are very kind. I am currently trying to trace a marriage that has taken place very recently. The parties will not reveal where it took place and it does not appear to have been solemnised in Bayswater, which is where they both reside, or even in London.’

  ‘Ah, I think I can guess what this is about!’ exclaimed Gillan, scribbling rapidly in shorthand.

  Frances turned to him. ‘You will have the full story, I promise, when it is resolved, but I beg you, do not report it yet or there may be undesirable consequences.’

  Gillan gave a little sigh of regret but assented.

  ‘You think there was something suspicious about this marriage?’ asked Pollaky.

  ‘I do, and I believe that the location has been deliberately concealed to prevent enquiry. But I can hardly search every parish in the land.’

  Pollaky gave this some thought. ‘It is my experience that when a man wishes to vanish from sight he does not go to a place that he has never been before. He looks for a town or a village where he feels at home. It might be a place that he has not been to for many a year but still he is drawn to it, as it has a familiarity that makes him comfortable. If the couple married elsewhere than Bayswater then ask yourself if they have another place that would welcome one or both, a residential address in the ar
ea that they can enter on the certificate.’

  Frances thanked him and he beamed and bowed, and took up his cup of tea once more.

  Mr Candy had just leaped up on the stage, looked quite flushed with excitement at the success of his new venture. Usually neat and dapper in his dress, he had made an even greater effort that evening to be the epitome of smart young manhood as if he had arranged to be polished bright for the occasion. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please make your way to your seats. The meeting will begin very shortly.’

  There was a last rush for the remaining tea and then everyone began to file into place. Mr Loveridge had just appeared and was standing by the side of the stage with a large sheaf of paper and his pockets stuffed with pencils, ready to sketch the participants.

  Frances and Sarah greeted him. ‘Is this a commission for the Illustrated Police News?’ asked Frances, seeing that he had already with a few swift strokes of his pencil outlined the stage and its environs.

  ‘It is, but also,’ he glanced about him quickly and lowered his voice, ‘more importantly the police have asked me to sketch as many people as I can as they think it very possible that the murderer might come here to gloat about his work and also to find out if he is close to discovery.’

  ‘You think he might be here in this very room?’ Frances cast a glance at the great assembly but could see no one suspicious. Everyone was very respectably dressed and well behaved, but she supposed that even the most depraved and maniacal killer could put on a good face and adopt pleasing manners and so fool everyone until he revealed his true self.

  ‘At least that Filleter fellow isn’t here,’ said Loveridge. ‘Judging from your description he would not be able to hide himself even in this throng.’

  ‘I hope you will not be sketching me. Remember your promise.’

  ‘I shall abide by your request, of course, and will not reveal your features to the press, but you must allow me to make a drawing of you one day, not for publication, but as a study of interest.’

  ‘If you think it would be interesting then of course I would permit it,’ said Frances, and she found herself blushing a little.