But the first thing they saw as they approached the block of flats was Harry’s car parked outside.
“They’ve beaten us to it,” mourned Daisy. “We may as well wait for them and get them to drive us home.”
They both leaned against the car.
A policeman approached them and eyed them up and down. “Now, now,” he said. “Go about your business. This is a decent neighbourhood.”
“This motor belongs to Captain Cathcart,” said Rose in cut-glass tones. “I am Lady Rose Summer and we are waiting for him. You go about your business, constable.”
“Not my fault,” grumbled the policeman. “The porter in there, he phones and says there’s a couple of prostitutes outside.”
“Just go away,” Rose was saying furiously when Harry and Becket joined them.
“This officer has accused us of being prostitutes,” said Rose.
Harry turned hard black eyes on the constable. “I’m right sorry, sir,” he said. “But it was that porter what told me.”
“Just go about your duties,” said Harry. The policeman touched his helmet and walked off.
“Now,” said Harry, “what are you doing here?”
“Looking for Mr Jones. We tried to talk to him at his shop but he escaped by the back way.”
“Well, I tried as well, but he had warned the porter not to admit anyone. Let’s get out of here. We need to talk. You are putting yourself at risk.”
♦
They went to the tea room opposite the haberdashery. Rose told Harry all they had found out. She said finally, “Are you sure that Jeffrey Biles was not our murderer?”
“I am not sure at all. He did not receive any visitors.”
“Not even a lawyer?”
“He did not ask for one. But a lawyer would have been appointed to him before his trial.”
“Then it must have been one of the guards at the prison,” said Daisy.
Becket gave his wife an indulgent smile. “What on earth would a guard have to gain by killing him?”
“Money,” said Daisy. “Maybe someone paid him to shut Jeffrey up.”
“That sounds ridiculous,” said Becket.
“Wait a minute,” said Harry. “I will go to Kerridge tomorrow and ask if I can interview the guard. We must try everything. Perhaps Jones became so obsessed with Dolores and was furious when he found out she had become a tart that something in him snapped. I mean, why does he refuse to see us? Why did he leave by the back door of his shop rather than be confronted by Rose and Daisy?”
“I would like to come with you,” said Rose.
“Don’t you think it will be difficult to escape?” asked Harry. “Your parents must be wondering where you are.”
“I told them I was going down to the East End to do charity work.”
“Nonetheless, there is no need for all of us to turn up at the prison. It would occasion too much comment and a prison is no place for a lady.”
“Oh, I wish I were a man,” complained Rose.
Harry smiled at her. “I am so glad you are not. Now, I had better take you home.”
♦
Outside the earl’s town house, Harry helped Rose down from the car. He bent and kissed her hand. “When all this is over,” he said, “we will find a way to get married.”
“We may have to elope,” said Rose.
“I am sure I will find a way to persuade your parents. I know they have told me I am not to see you, so find out some social engagement you are going to, telephone my office and I will try to meet you there.”
Rose felt that wings were bearing her into the house. I really do love him, she thought, and then her face fell as Brum informed her in severe tones that Lady Polly was asking for her.
Rose went to her rooms first to change the drab clothes she had chosen to wear while detecting. She rang for Hunter and was dressed in a tea gown.
“There you are!” exclaimed Lady Polly. “Brum tells me that you arrived home in Captain Cathcart’s car. We told you to have nothing to do with that man.”
“He happened to be in the East End at the same time,” said Rose, “and I was glad of an escort home.”
“Did you go on your own?”
“No, Mrs Becket accompanied me.”
“That was not enough. Two of the footmen should have been with you. Now I want you to look your best tomorrow night. We are going to Mrs Blenkinsop’s musical evening and Lord Cherm’s son, Roger, is going to be there. He has been travelling abroad, which is why he has not been seen at the Season before. He is eminently eligible.”
The telephone was in Matthew’s office. Rose stood on the first landing, watching the office door in the hall until she saw Matthew come out. He put on his hat and coat and left.
Rose darted down the stairs and telephoned Harry. “I’ll look through my invitations,” he said. “If I haven’t got one to Mrs Blenkinsop’s, I will manage to get invited somehow. Be careful. No more detecting.”
♦
The next day, Rose was informed that her father had gone to his club and that her mother was lying down with a headache, although Hunter, the lady’s maid, confided that the ‘headache’ was actually a cream treatment to whiten the skin and remove any tan, and was supposed to take all day.
Rose decided to call on Daisy. Daisy greeted her with relief and delight. “I thought I was going to be stuck here all day. I told the captain I wanted to take up my duties as detective and he said I had to stay at home because of the baby. Men! What do you have in mind?”
“I want to see this Mr Jones. I want to see what he looks like. I want to see if I can waylay him and speak to him.”
“Do you think he’s dangerous?”
“What can he do? With Harry trying to see him, he must know he is under suspicion and he won’t make any rash moves.”
“How did you get out?”
“Mama is enduring some treatment to bleach her tan and Father is at his club. We’ll take the cab I’ve got waiting outside.”
It took quite a long time to reach Notting Hill. Rain had begun to fall and the roads were a morass of mud and horse droppings. Carters, bus drivers, tram drivers, cab drivers and the few motor chauffeurs had no protection against the rain. They sat in the open, wearing oilskin hats and capes, with the rain pouring off them. Noise rose up around Rose and Daisy. A motor bus honked and banged, encouraged by shouts of “Whip behind, guv’nor!”
The buses were of all colours: red, blue, yellow, white, green, purple, orange and chocolate. Like the old stagecoaches, they all had names, such as The Favourite, The Atlas, The Royal Blue, The Royal Oak and The Wellington.
Hawkers still hawked their wares, but they seemed angry about their goods, whereas their grandfathers had been pleased. Instead of the old melodious chants, they bawled and yelled.
As they arrived at Notting Hill, the rain stopped and a watery sunlight gilded the muddy pavements. Rose paid the cabbie and they both stood, irresolute.
“We’ll sit in the tea room,” said Daisy. “Look, it’s quite empty. We can get a table by the window and observe the haberdashery.”
They ordered tea and biscuits and tried to watch the shop but the sun was making steam rise from the pavement and the window was misted up. Rose kept rubbing a viewing circle with her handkerchief.
“Are you watching that shop?” asked the waitress.
Rose swung round. “No, I like to look at the people passing by.”
“‘Cos Mrs Jones over there wondered what you was up to.”
With a bob of her head, the waitress indicated a woman sitting in the far corner.
“I shall go and put her mind at rest,” said Rose. “Come, Daisy.”
They approached the haberdasher’s wife. Rose judged her to be in her late twenties. She was wearing a long grey coat unseasonably trimmed with fur. A large grey hat was perched on top of her piled-up blonde hair. Her eyes were small and looked at them warily.