“That does sound promising.” Agatha was making notes. The inspector didn’t seem to mind answering her questions, so she pressed on. “Has Sir Bernard uncovered any significant evidence?”
“Well, he’s made his opinion official that no sexual assault was involved in any one of the three cases. And he passed along to Superintendent Cherrill various items for fingerprinting.”
Fred Cherrill was to fingerprinting what Sir Bernard Spilsbury was to forensics: the Yard was taking no chances on this case. Top resources, indeed.
“Going back to the Evelyn Hamilton murder,” Inspector Greeno said, “the superintendent checked the handbag that had been emptied out in the air-raid shelter, and various contents of the bag; but he found only the victim’s prints.”
“I hope Superintendent Cherrill did better with that tin-opener and those curling tongs.”
“Smudged prints only, I’m afraid-but he was able to back up Sir Bernard’s opinion that our assailant is left-handed: the tin-opener had a smeared print belonging to the little finger of a left hand. The tongs had also been held in a left hand, and a mirror in the emptied-out handbag had a left thumbprint. Again, not identifiable, but indicating we indeed have a left-hander.”
Agatha paused in her note-taking. She said, “Ted… Inspector… I must say it’s generous of you to take time to share all of this with a… what is the word? Kibitzer?”
“Agatha, I have orders from the Home Office to give you every courtesy. But beyond that, you’ve been enormously helpful in this inquiry, thus far-not only with the theatrical link-up, but with your keen powers of observation.”
“Again, all I can say is, you’re most generous. Frankly, I’m blushing.” But, of course, she wasn’t. “Have you had any luck tracing Mrs. Oatley’s husband?”
“In fact, we have. Our people traced him to Blackpool. He seems in the clear. His alibis on the murder nights are, as you say in your books, ironclad.”
She chuckled. “Well, most of the ‘ironclad’ alibis in my books are in the possession of the murderer.”
“Not in this case, I’d wager. The bloke and his wife have been separated by mutual agreement for over a year. They’ve stayed friendly, far as it goes, and he’s seen her in London, from time to time… most recently, about a week ago.”
“Was he aware of his wife’s profession? And I am not referring to dancing or acting.”
“Mr. Oatley says not. I don’t believe him.”
“Well… that’s the kind of lie that does not raise suspicions.”
“True enough. But the main reason I called, Agatha, was to give you a report on your friends at the theater. We’ve checked up on all of them.”
“Now I feel quite ashamed of myself.”
“Please don’t. I can give you mostly good news about all of them-their stories, their alibis, all check out.”
“Then why, Ted, do you say ‘mostly’ good news?”
The inspector’s sigh came across the wire distinctly. “It’s the problem detectives have, outside of books, where alibis are concerned-people rarely have those ironclad ones we mentioned, before.”
“You mean, it’s difficult to determine whether Larry Sullivan sneaked out of the Savoy and back in again? Too many exits?”
“Yes, and not enough doormen-only at the front and back. There are numerous side and rear ways out of the hotel. Most of the doors lock automatically, but one could arrange easily enough for a door not to shut entirely or place adhesive over a lock.”
She nodded to herself. “And Bertie and Irene’s, with their quiet evening at home, is also rather worthless, isn’t it?”
“Yes. One could be covering for the other. And your friend Stephen Glanville says he was home, alone, at his flat, which is where Janet Cummins spent the evening, as well.”
She knew the detective meant Janet had spent the evening in her own flat, and did not correct him.
“Men of mine,” he was saying, “attempted to find witnesses who might have seen Mr. Glanville or Mrs. Cummins exit their buildings, but without success.”
“And what about Mr. Cummins? Janet’s handsome cadet? Aren’t military men often the clients of these ‘good-time girls’?”
The inspector grunted. “He’s in the clear, too. I spoke to him at his quarters last night-he was on fire duty, as you may recall. He seems an intelligent, well-spoken lad.”
“He wasn’t acquainted with the late Mrs. Oatley, or should I say Miss Ward?”
“No. Cadet Cummins says he saw her only that once, on stage, trying out for the understudy part.”
“And what exactly puts him ‘in the clear’?”
“Our RAF cadet was in billets at the time of the two recent murders. The billet passbook confirms the times he came and went, and his roommates verified seeing him go to bed and get up in the morning.”
“I must say I’m relieved.”
“And why is that?”
“Well, I like the young man. He has excellent taste, you know.”
“Really? How do you know that, Agatha?”
“He’s a fan of my books.”
Inspector Greeno actually laughed; she had a feeling it might have been his first laugh of the day.
He said, “Frankly, Agatha, I don’t find it likely that one of your theatrical crowd is our Ripper… whether Jack or Jill. I find it marginally possible that one of them might have had reason to kill Miss Ward, or should I say Mrs. Oatley… but the other two murders? No.”
“And you find my notion of a murderer hiding his work amid another murderer’s tally… melodramatic. More suited to Hercule Poirot’s world than Ted Greeno’s.”
“I do,” he admitted. “Nonetheless, the Yard is… as I said… mobilizing all its top resources. And you are a top resource in my book, Mrs. Agatha Mallowan.”
“How can I be of help?”
“Stay with us, on the scent.”
“You think there will be more murders, then?”
“I’m surprised this morning’s phone hasn’t rung. I’m wondering if some poor girl is dead on her divan, right now… as yet undiscovered by a meter man or landlord.”
“Why are you so certain, Ted?”
“Two murders in two days… with the savagery of them mounting. This is a beast, Agatha. A beast on a killing spree. If you should want to bow out of it, I would not blame you. I would understand.”
“Oh, I do want to bow out of it.”
Surprise and disappointment colored the inspector’s voice. “You do?”
“I do… but I won’t.”
And they rang off; and both went off to work, on their respective murder cases.
FEBRUARY 12, 1942
H er mother was expecting her.
That was what confused Mary Jane Lowe, who had taken the tube from Charing Cross station to meet her mother, Margaret, at the second-floor flat on Gosfield Street, a narrow side street just off Tottenham Court Road. Mary Jane was fourteen, a tall, dark, brown-eyed brunette with a blossoming figure the boys were noticing; right now she was boyishly dressed herself-navy blue coveralls and a matching corduroy jacket-partly because that was the style, but also due to the chill, snowy weather.
Mary Jane did not wear makeup-her mother didn’t approve-but her features were so pretty, her brown eyes so big and long-lashed, her smile so wide and white, her lips so full, she didn’t really need to. She was proud of her good looks, which she’d inherited from her mum, who had just enough Spanish blood in her to make both mother and daughter seem vaguely exotic.
Someday, perhaps, she would be as beautiful as her mother.
Before the war, Mary Jane’s mum had kept a boardinghouse in the coastal town of Southend, and the girl had fond, vivid memories of sunny blue-sky mornings and running along the sand with their Scottie terrier. But Southend tourism was a thing of the past these days-barbed wire strung along the beach, aimed to keep out the invading German hordes, kept out holiday fun-seekers, as well-and then the boardinghouse, which was on the verge of going broke anyway, got commandeered by the military.