Chapter Seventeen

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T he London detectives arrived the next day at exactly the appointed hour. Grace felt no urge to rush out to greet them, though. She put her chin in her hand and observed them as they got out of the taxi and paid the driver. They were an odd pair. The one who got out first was exceptionally tall, with stooped shoulders and a long face, with wisps of hair touching his collar, and a precise manner in his movements. He looked as if a horse had put on a mackintosh and been taught to walk on its hind legs. His companion was round – a snowman with a ruddy face and a thick sandy moustache. Both were well bundled up against the cold.

The bell clanged and Grace heard the front door open, but did not move until Hewitt had shown the men into the library and come to fetch her. Grace had thought carefully about where to receive them, and the library – a generous-sized but businesslike room, with the great portrait of Sir Barnabas in his civic regalia looking down on them – felt right. She came into the room expecting them to be seated in the chairs set out for them by the fire, but the snowman was peering out of the window, and the horse was reading a volume of Catullus he had pulled off one of the shelves.

‘Mrs Treadwell?’ the horse said, glancing up from his Latin. ‘Is Miss Stanmore here?’

‘She’ll be with us in a few minutes,’ Grace said, hoping that was true. ‘She has asked me to be here while you talk to her.’

‘We’d rather speak to her alone,’ the horse said darkly.

‘Now, now!’ the snowman intervened. ‘If the lady is more comfortable having a friend with her while we speak to her, that’s quite understandable.’ He bustled forward and offered his hand. ‘I am Detective Sergeant Orme, Mrs Treadwell, and my lugubrious companion there is DS Hatchard.’

Grace found her hands enveloped in Orme’s. They were fleshy and dry, and the handshake was surprisingly strong. Hatchard merely nodded at her.

‘Now this is quite a business! Though I must say it’s a delight to be out of London for a while, isn’t it, Hatchard?’

‘No,’ Hatchard replied, and Orme laughed, slapping his hand on his ample thigh.

‘Isn’t he a card? So Miss Stanmore fled up here the moment she learnt about the tragic death of drug seller Tasha Kingsland, I understand?’

Grace blinked.

‘Stella didn’t flee,’ she said. ‘She had bad news and an unpleasant run-in with a reporter, so she came to visit friends. Will you sit down?’

‘Oh, happy to stand for a minute, Mrs Treadwell. This is Lady Lassiter’s home, is it not? Your husband’s natural mother? And I believe you have a visitor from Marakovia staying here as well?’

‘You are remarkably well informed,’ Grace said, taking a seat near the fire.

‘Assume, Mrs Treadwell,’ Hatchard replied in a voice which sounded as if it were emanating from an abandoned tomb, ‘that we know everything.’

Grace felt her jaw clench a little. ‘Well, that must make your job very straightforward.’

Orme laughed uproariously at this, and was still wiping his eyes when the door opened and Stella finally made her entrance. She was wearing a houndstooth skirt – an old one of Lillian’s – and a white shirt with a Peter Pan collar: the perfect costume for a young lady whose day might take in horse riding, a game of tennis and some light Bible study.

Orme bounced forward. ‘Ah, Miss Stanmore! What a pleasure to meet you, albeit in a sad set of circumstances. I’m Detective Sergeant Orme, and this is DS Hatchard.’ Both men finally settled into the chairs set out for them and as Stella sat next to Grace, Orme took a notebook from his pocket.

‘How long had you been acquainted with the deceased, Miss Stanmore?’ he began.

Stella crossed her long legs and sat back slightly in her chair. ‘A little over ten months, I think. She was acting as a hostess at a club I sometimes go to with friends, then moved to another I also go to quite often. She recognised me – she was a great theatre fan – and we talked.’

‘Where do you get your drugs from, Miss Stanmore?’ Hatchard said bluntly. ‘The place you sent Tasha is notorious for cocaine sales.’

‘What? I didn’t ask her to go there.’ Stella tossed her head slightly. ‘And I never bought dope from her.’

‘I’m not thinking you bought it from her,’ Orme said. ‘I’m thinking maybe she was selling it on your behalf.’

‘What?’ Grace said.

‘Wholesale,’ Orme went on remorselessly. ‘You would give it to her a bottle at a time, and Tasha would divide it into little packets that she could sell, easy as pie, out of her evening bag at the club. Probably didn’t see any harm in it. A way to get a little extra pin money and fund her own habit. But it’s boring work, dividing that stuff into packets. Probably decided to sample a little to get her through the night, but she took too much and her heart gave out.’

‘Why in God’s name would you think I gave it to her?’

‘She came to see you at your dressing room the day before she died, didn’t she? Came in looking glum, the doorman said. Left looking more cheerful. Did you give her the cocaine, Miss Stanmore?’ said Orme.

‘No,’ Stella snapped.

‘What did you give her?’ Hatchard asked.

‘A little money, and some words of encouragement.’

‘Profitable business, selling drugs in nightclubs, if you have the contacts to do it in volume,’ Orme said, addressing the air above Grace’s head. ‘Now, you might think Hatchard and I are being unreasonable. Perhaps we are. But there’s a few things about this case that have got our noses twitching. Shall I tell you what they are?’

‘I wish you would,’ Grace said, ‘because you seem to be talking nonsense so far. Why would a woman as successful as Stella sell drugs?’

‘Well, Mrs Treadwell . . . Now, you might not be aware of this, but some bad people – nasty types – they bring in these drugs from abroad. A lot, I have to say, comes in to Limehouse, as much a den of iniquity as in the high days of Sherlock Holmes! But a considerable amount also comes in to . . .’ He waved his pen, then pointed its nib in a westerly direction. ‘Liverpool! Did you know that?’

‘Of course not,’ Grace said sharply.

‘Of course not. Well, we know it. Interesting thing. The naughty people who bring it into the country, they buy from different people on the continent, and bring it in in different ways. Now normally, when we catch a girl like Miss Kingsland selling the stuff in clubs, we have no way of knowing where it came from, but of course the poor lass died while splitting her bottle into packets, see? And Orme and I . . . Well, we looked at the bottle and we said, “That’s not Limehouse.”’ He scratched his nose with the end of his pencil. ‘So we called up our colleagues in Newcastle and described our bottle.’

‘And?’ Grace asked, her throat feeling a little dry.

‘And, Mrs Treadwell, the bottle rang a bell.’

‘Loudly,’ Hatchard added.

‘Now, it may come as a shock to you to hear that there are some bad people in this very town.’ Orme’s voice had grown suddenly soft. ‘Yes, even in Highbridge! Very naughty fellows. One lot in particular, run out of this city by a man named Ray Kelly. Heard of him?’

Grace felt a chill crawling up her spine, and she had a nasty feeling Hatchard was watching her.

‘No,’ Stella said. She got up and crossed to one of the side tables under the window, flicked open the silver cigarette box, took one and lit it. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Are you sure?’ Orme said. ‘Mrs Treadwell has, I think.’

Grace wet her lips. ‘Everyone who lives in Highbridge has heard of him.’

Orme rubbed his chin again. It was starting to look pinker than the rest of his already pink face. ‘Is that so? Now, now. We know that men like Ray Kelly – frightening, clever men – they can make these arrangements seem attractive. Your theatre’s had some rough times of late. If you let Ray Kelly use it as a way to sell dope by the bottle to actors and actresses, like Miss Stanmore, I’m sure he’d see you right.’

Grace had heard enough. She stood up. ‘Mr Orme, you’re wasted as a detective. You should have been a dramatist. Please leave and take your ridiculous insinuations with you. If you need to speak to Miss Stanmore again, you may make an appointment with our solicitors.’

Hatchard and Orme exchanged glances. ‘Now, that’s a shame! We had hoped to pierce the veil with the help of you ladies.

‘Oh, for crying out loud!’ Stella said. ‘Whatever I am, I am not a drug dealer. Tasha was a sweet girl and . . .’ Her voice cracked. ‘And you’re idiots .’

Grace wished she could have scripted her a better exit line, but Stella did deliver it with absolute conviction. She stalked out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

‘We’ve outstayed our welcome, Hatchard,’ Orme said over his shoulder. ‘I suppose we’d better be off.’

‘I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey,’ Grace said, sounding not very sorry at all.

‘Wouldn’t say that.’ Orme placed a card on the table. ‘Tell Miss Stanmore to call us if she changes her mind.’