“I think we should leave any further investigation until tomorrow,” said Harry, much to Becket’s relief.
“And where do we go tomorrow?” asked Becket.
“We’re going to take a trip to 19 Sordey Street in Whitechapel. Dolores’s father had a shop there, or I’m sure he had, because that’s an address I found in that box.”
As soon as they reached the house in Chelsea, Becket put on an apron and went down to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Daisy had turned out to be a quite dreadful cook. Daisy joined him and gave him a fierce hug.
“Later,” said Becket. “We’ve got to get the captain’s dinner ready. I’ll grill some lamb chops – that’s quick and easy. Thank goodness he likes a simple meal. There’s apple pie and cream for dessert.”
After he had taken Harry’s dinner up to him, Becket laid the kitchen table for himself and Daisy.
“We’re going to see that Dolores woman’s father, or rather where the father used to have a shop,” said Becket, deftly putting lamb chops, vegetables and potatoes on a plate and putting it in front of Daisy.
“And where’s that?” asked Daisy. Becket served up his own food and joined her at the table.
“It’s in Whitechapel, 19 Sordey Street.”
Daisy made a mental note. She decided it would not be wise to tell Becket that Rose meant to go there herself. He would protest and tell the captain and then she would have another day on her own with nothing to do.
“We’ll need to ask the captain to get us that apartment,” said Daisy. “And you will then need to discuss your hours with him.”
“How can I do that? Servants don’t get time off, apart from one week a year.”
“And I was supposed to work. You must ask him about that.”
“I think he is being considerate because of the baby coming.”
“But you don’t know! Honestly, it’s more like you were married to him instead of to me!”
♦
The next morning, after they had left, Daisy took a cab to the earl’s residence. Rose was delighted to see her. “I talked to Mama, and she is agreeable. We’d better take a cab so as not to draw attention to ourselves. Your hat is too grand, Daisy. I’ll give you a plain one to wear.”
Daisy removed her cartwheel straw hat embellished with sprigs of artificial lavender and reluctantly put on a plain straw boater. Rose was wearing a blouse and skirt with a light coat and a broad-brimmed felt hat without any embellishment.
“We must get out before Mama wakes or she will insist on sending footmen with us,” said Rose. “This is fun! Quite like old times.”
“Rose,” said Daisy cautiously, “have you considered that if Jeffrey did not kill his sister and that Frenchwoman, there might be a murderer out there?”
“I should be safe,” said Rose. “Say it is someone else who was manipulating Jeffrey into trying to put the blame on me, well, now, as far as he knows, he has a scapegoat in the late Jeffrey.”
“Still, he might be dangerous,” said Daisy. “I mean, if he murdered Jeffrey, how did he manage to do it?”
“Some visitor?”
“I asked Becket and he asked the captain last night after dinner. The captain said that no one was logged in the prison book.”
“Odd. But let’s go.”
♦
Harry arrived at 19 Sordey Street. It was still a grocer’s shop, a small dingy place. He opened the door and a bell tied by a rope above the door clanged loudly. A woman was behind the counter, slapping butter into blocks with two wooden paddles.
“Can I ‘elp you?” she asked.
She was a tall, thin woman with a lantern-jawed face and her hair tied tightly in a scarlet kerchief – the type of woman, Harry thought, who might have knitted below the scaffold during the French Revolution.
“I believe a Mr Biles used to own this shop,” he said.
“So what’s that to you?”
Harry presented his card. She squinted at it and then glared at him. “We don’t like nosy parkers round ‘ere.”
“It’s a simple question. Did a Mr Biles own this shop?”
“If you’re not buying anythink, shove off.”
♦
Rose and Daisy saw Becket’s car outside the shop and told the driver to go farther along the street. “We’ll wait until they’ve gone,” said Rose. “I think Harry would send me home if he saw me.”
Rose peered out the small back window. “Harry’s come out. He looks angry. I don’t think he got anywhere.”
“They don’t trust people asking questions around here,” said Daisy, feeling confident now that she was back in her home ground of London’s East End. “I tell you what. When we go in, you don’t say anything. Leave the talking to me. We’d better buy a lot of stuff. I bet they never thought of that.”
They waited until they saw them drive off. Telling the cabbie to wait, they made their way back to the shop.
Daisy smiled brightly at the woman behind the counter and her voice changed back to its old Cockney accent as she asked, “Got any ham, luv?”
“Fine bit o’ Wiltshire.”
“I’ll take a pound o’ that.”
“A pound!” The woman’s grim features lightened.
She heaved a ham onto the slicing machine. “You’re not from around here?”
“Used ter be,” chirped Daisy. “I was in the chorus at Butler’s.”
“Was you now? I used ter go there Saturday nights. Luvverley it was.”
“I’m down visiting me family. I’ll take a pound of butter as well. I know everywhere around ‘ere. Hey, wasn’t there a grumpy man who used to own this shop? Can’t remember his name. Oh, a pound of sugar as well.”
“That ud be Biles. Died o’ a heart attack. The son sold the shop to me.” She lowered her voice. “The son, Jeffrey, been banged up for murder.”
“Never!” screeched Daisy.
“Yus. Murdered his own sister.”
“Did you know the sister?”
“‘Member her, way back. Pretty little thing. Ran away. He used to beat ‘er. He wanted ‘er to go with Mr Jones, him what owned the haberdashery down the Mile End Road. Lived in Breem Lane. Now, she was but fifteen and Jones was in ‘is late thirties. Scandal, it were. Betty, that was the daughter, she said she wouldn’t and Biles beat the living daylights out of her. She took the money out of the till and just went off. Can’t say I blame her.”
“I’m sure this Mr Jones found someone else.”
“Yes, he got himself a nice little bride and it all worked out in the end.”
Daisy paid for the groceries and they left and walked back to the waiting cab. “That ham did not look fresh,” said Rose. “Give it away.”
“If I give it away to someone nearby, word’ll get back to her. Let’s find out where Breem Lane is.”
♦
Breem Lane was narrow and dirty. Scruffy children without shoes played in the dirt. Blowsy women hung out of windows and stared at the carriage.
“Better let me go on with the talking,” said Daisy as they both stood uneasily by the cab.
She shouted up to a fat woman at one of the windows, “Mr Jones, the haberdasher, live here?”
“Naw, left to go live uptown.”
“Where would that be?”
The woman half turned her head and shouted, “Marigold!”
“What is it, Ma?” a voice called from inside the flat.
“Someone wanting Jones’s address. ‘Member, him what ‘ad the haberdashery?”
“Notting Hill it were. Chepstow Mansions. Real posh. Liza went to do the cleaning once, but they got rid o’ her.”
Daisy thanked the woman. They got back in the cab. “Notting Hill,” Daisy shouted up to the driver. “Chepstow Mansions.”
“You’re running up a fearsome bill,” grumbled the cabby.