‘Oh, you are making progress, then! Yes. He was a client. Got him! A month or two ago. I can check my records if you like but I can remember most of it. . He came to make contact with his wife. She died, was it three years ago?’
‘Ah, yes. Nice chap but he seemed to have an aura of unhappiness about him, I thought.’
‘An aura, eh? Don’t think you got that from the police training manual!’
‘This is no time to be flippant, Maisie! There was something he said which gave me that impression. . something sorrowful.’ Joe frowned with the effort to remember words casually spoken. ‘He told me to take care of Tilly because “she was all he’d got left” — something like that.’
‘Yes, I suppose she would be. They always come with a question, you know, Joe. Sadly, no response was forthcoming that evening to his, but what he wanted from his wife was reassurance that their elder daughter had made it over safely and was with her mother in the spirit world. Some people still have doubts that you’re welcome over the other side if you’re a suicide. She killed herself, Joe.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘Well, she’s no Dorothy Wilding, is she?’ said Cyril, examining the photograph Joe had reconstructed and placed on the table in front of him. ‘A pint of bitter, please, if you’re buying. And a ham sandwich with mustard.’
Joe made his way over to the bar at the Cock Tavern and placed an order. He carried the tankards back to the seclusion of the corner table they’d chosen and they took a grateful swallow. He decided on a general conversation topic while they were waiting for the sandwiches. ‘Let’s enjoy this while we can, eh, Cyril? No knowing how long it’ll be before supplies dry up! Do I count myself lucky to have got you on a Tuesday morning — what they’re calling the first real day of the strike? No tube. No trains. Violent speeches in the House, mayhem breaking loose in the streets — I’d have thought your editor would have had you stripped to the waist and chained to your typewriter, labouring to get it all down.’
Cyril made a disparaging noise in his throat. Evidently, his good humour had deserted him. ‘Just the opposite. It’s a bloody lock-out! Government orders. They closed down the Daily Mail, now us. The rest will follow. But don’t concern yourself — there’ll be news of a sort published: I heard from a mate at the Morning Post that they’re taking over their offices as of today and pumping out a propaganda rag called the British Gazette. To be edited by the Chancellor of the Exchequer!’
‘That fire-eater Churchill? He’s rabidly anti-strike. Sees it as an attempt to overthrow the government.’
‘Hardly makes for unbiased, objective reporting,’ sniffed Cyril.
‘Are you shocked, Cyril?’ Joe said quietly. ‘I’m shocked. Is this the freedom of the press we all value?’
‘Oh, it gets worse!’ said Cyril lugubriously. ‘They’re moving in on the wireless. Putting out government news bulletins five times a day, starting with Baldwin’s fire and brimstone speech in the House. They’re calling for the general public — that’s anyone between seventeen and seventy — to volunteer for strike-breaking duties. Driving buses, working on the railways and in the power stations. It’ll be murder! Can you imagine? Undergraduates in plus-fours at the wheel of a London omnibus! Schoolboys at the controls of an underground train! Grannies in the signal boxes!’
He took a fortifying swig of beer and ranted on. ‘And have you driven past Hyde Park lately? Looks like an army camp. I was up there this morning. Food distribution centre, they’re saying. It’s bristling with titled ladies, all wearing identical pork-pie hats and military-style mackintoshes. Looks like they rang around and decided what one ought to wear for a General Strike! They’ve rallied to the call of Lady Astor to save their country from the filthy Bolshevik strikers and show the rest of us where our duty lies. I got a shot of them smiling smugly, pretending to peel potatoes — emergency rations for the volunteers. Some of those women have never seen a potato in its natural state before, let alone peeled one! It’s wreaking havoc with their manicures, I’m pleased to say.’
‘Watch it, Cyril, your allegiances are showing!’
‘Haven’t got any allegiances. I pride myself on being able to see all points of view and I suspect you do too, Commander. But — I’ll tell you — we’re in a minority. The rest of the country’s divided itself along class lines and the two sides are determined to have a go at each other. Resentment of generations about to boil over.’
‘I saw something really stomach-churning coming down the Mall this morning,’ said Joe. ‘Mob of about thirty polo players, prancing about on their ponies, looking for trouble. I stopped one and asked if I could redirect him to Hurlingham. Told me they’d signed up — the whole bloody club! — for what he called the “Special Civil Constabulary” and were patrolling the streets of London to quell the troublemakers. I told him I was the “Regular and Rather Rude Constabulary” and I’d nick him for incitement to violence and spreading public disorder. He took my details! Threatened to horsewhip me and demanded to know which side I thought I was on. . Do you know, Cyril, I was lost for an answer. I don’t want there to be sides but I know I couldn’t ride knee to knee with that arsehole! And I play polo! If I ever came across him on the field I’d cheerfully crack his skull.’
‘What the hell’s happening, Joe? This isn’t what we fought for.’
Cyril’s spirits lifted at the sight of the ham sandwiches being delivered to their table and Joe decided, when the waiter had left, that the time had come to get him back on track. ‘Dorothy who?’ he asked.
‘Dorothy? Oh, yes. Sorry, Joe. Let’s return to our little baa-lambs, eh? I forget you’re not a photographer. Dorothy Wilding. She has a studio in Old Bond Street and if you were to stand on the pavement opposite, you’d see a procession of famous faces turning up for her attentions. Royal personages, to say nothing of the royalty of stage and silver screen. Noel Coward. . Gladys Cooper. . Tallulah Bankhead. She’s good. At the sharp edge of the art. I model myself on her.’
‘These aren’t bad, considering the circumstances,’ said Joe. He had produced his gallery of the Hive members and, to provide Cyril with the full picture, had fitted round one of the faces a frame he’d managed to hide from Dorcas as she fed them on to the flames.
‘Practical rather than professional but, I agree, not bad. Indoor shots always difficult. She used artificial light, I’d say, looking at the shadows — two sources — but I think, not flash powder. That would be dangerous anyway in a tight space with so much Eastern drapery to go up in flames. I wouldn’t try it. Look at those tassels!’
‘There were two large wall lights on the back wall,’ Joe offered. ‘Very large. Would have looked more at home in the Tivoli Cinema.’
‘Ah. If you’d checked the bulbs you’d have found they were a thousand watts. That’s what Wilding uses. And the camera? It would have had to be something small and unobtrusive for this sort of game. I’d say these girls were drugged or drunk and probably didn’t know arse from elbow at the time, but I can’t see her fitting out this little snuggery with cumbersome studio equipment. What sort of range are we talking about? Eight, ten feet? It’ll turn out to be one of those new Leica 35 mm jobs. Neat.’
‘It’s the subjects I’m really interested in, Cyril.’
‘Right. Tell you what — hand them to me one at a time and you can write their names on the back — if I know them. Oh, by the way — the bloke with the starring role in this little peep show I’d swear is Donovan. I expect you know that? Can’t claim to have an intimate knowledge of the chap’s rear elevation but there are clues that might help. Have you noticed the Elastoplast where a tattoo would be and the mole on his right shoulder blade?’
Joe handed him the first of the card-mounted photographs.
‘Well! Who’d have thought it? Joan Dennison! I am surprised!’