Chapter 10

10

Harry had very few memories of what life had been like during the Great War. She knew her father had served, could remember long periods of time when he was not at home, but her brothers had been too young to join up and the worst of the horror had passed her by. Plenty of her friends had been touched by the tragedy, however, and Harry was well aware how lucky she was. And never was she more conscious of her privilege than when she read Philip St John's first novel, the one that had made his literary fortune.

The Blood-soaked Soil was set in 1917, and chronicled the life of a young man in the trenches, from his patriotic pride at signing up, to his horror as the reality of war stripped his romantic notions away. It was every bit as searing as the poetry of Wilfred Owen, and Harry was frequently moved to tears as she read. Even the dedication – To Rupert Templeton, who died that I might live – caused an ache in her chest. It took her two nights to read it, staying up far later than she should, and when she had finished, she understood why its author was considered such a prodigious talent. It made her all the more determined to solve the mystery of his illness.

All too conscious that John Archer was expecting an update on Thursday, Harry spent much of Tuesday evening poring over the book of poisons she had borrowed from the London Library. Many of the toxins described had symptoms that did not fit with what she had observed; often, they were instantly debilitating, making death an inevitability. There were only a handful that caused a gradual onset of symptoms, and she could not imagine how anyone at Thrumwell Manor could have acquired them. Her initial suspicion was lead poisoning from old pipes, but long-term exposure caused anaemia and a blue tinge around the lips and gums that she felt sure a doctor would have noticed. Short-term exposure in high doses presented itself as tiredness, appetite loss and hallucinations – all of which got Harry's attention – but were also accompanied by nausea, vomiting and diarrhoea, which were thankfully not symptoms Philip St John suffered from. It was a conundrum Harry would have given a great deal to solve but as yet no solution presented itself.

Her research was interrupted around eight-thirty by the telephone. She answered to hear Oliver's voice on the line. ‘Hello. I thought I'd check in and see how you were faring with setting the trap for your bank burglar.'

‘Very well,' she said, with some satisfaction. ‘In fact, I caught him. He confessed to the whole thing – it turns out he's been working for Pemberton but now he wants to be some kind of double agent. Can you believe it?'

‘Yes, unfortunately,' Oliver said, sounding disapproving. ‘It's the kind of thing I hear a lot, working in the court system. Some of the more hardened criminals will say anything they think you want to hear. I hope you turned him down.'

‘Not yet,' Harry said. ‘He says he can give me the address of the young secretary Mr Pemberton seduced. I thought that might be information worth having.'

‘Maybe,' Oliver said doubtfully. ‘But I'd be surprised if he can be trusted.'

‘I thought it might be worth a visit,' Harry said. ‘It wouldn't hurt to hear her story.'

‘Be careful. I know you can look after yourself but Pemberton strikes me as the kind of man who gets vicious when cornered.'

‘All the more reason to talk to the poor girl,' Harry replied. ‘She might be in need of a friend.'

‘Perhaps,' Oliver said, although Harry thought he still sounded unconvinced. ‘Speaking of friends, I got a rather odd letter today. It was addressed to a Sarah Smith, care of Oliver Fortescue Esq, from someone called Beth Chamberlain, and it claimed Mildred Longstaff was a mutual friend. Does that mean anything to you?'

Harry felt her jaw drop in astonishment. Sarah Smith was the alias she had adopted when she'd been investigating Mildred's disappearance. She had met Beth while undercover at a shady employment bureau and the young woman had helped her to establish who the true criminals in the case had been. ‘Yes, but I can't imagine why she's writing to you.'

‘I suppose she saw my name in the newspaper and put two and two together. She says she has information about Polly Spender.' Oliver paused. ‘Isn't that the name of the maid who used to work for Lady Finchem?'

‘The same,' Harry said, feeling a surge of excitement. ‘She's the one who helped to frame Mildred, but she disappeared before I could question her. What does Beth say about her?'

‘Not much,' Oliver replied. ‘She says she'll be at the Mother Red Cap pub in Camden tomorrow evening at seven o'clock if you want to know more.'

Harry digested the unexpected news. Mildred had been cleared of the crime she had been accused of, and released from Holloway prison, but Harry was sure Polly knew something that might lead to the arrest of the gang leaders behind the robbery. Had Beth found something that would help Harry to discover their identities?

‘Are you going to go?' Oliver asked, when she didn't speak. ‘It sounds?—'

‘Dangerous,' Harry cut in. ‘Yes, I know.'

‘I was going to say interesting,' Oliver said. ‘It goes without saying that it's probably dangerous.'

‘Beth is smart and she might have found something we can pass along to Scotland Yard,' Harry said firmly. ‘She won't put either of us in harm's way.'

Shortly after that, she rang off and sat staring into space for a few moments. Then she roused herself and went to find the bag of serviceable but old clothes she wore when she became Sarah Smith. It looked very much as though another trip to Camden was on the cards.

Harry found Beth sitting at the same table they'd shared the last time she had visited the Mother Red Cap public house, nursing a half-drunk pint of mild. She squinted up when Harry arrived, then smiled. ‘Well, well, if it ain't my mate Sarah Smith.'

‘Hello, Beth,' Harry said, attempting to copy the young woman's perfect Cockney accent and trying not to cringe at the result. She really needed to practise her vowel sounds. ‘Can I get you a drink?'

‘Don't mind if you do,' Beth said. ‘I'll have the usual.'

Harry made her way to the bar, easing her way through the crowd and returning with two pints. ‘So,' Beth said as she joined her on the hard wooden bench. ‘How've you been? I saw your friend Mildred got out.'

‘She did,' Harry said, pretending to sip her drink. ‘Nothing to do with me, of course. It was all her lawyer that done it.'

Beth gave her an innocent look. ‘Oh, of course.'

‘How's things with you?' Harry asked. ‘Have you managed to find a job yet?'

Beth sighed. ‘No. I've been round Mrs Haverford's a few times but there's not much going.' She paused. ‘Not for someone that knows right from wrong, at any rate.'

Harry nodded. Mrs Haverford's Bureau of Excellence provided domestic staff to wealthy families and Harry suspected it had been involved in the robbery that had put Mildred in prison. She hadn't been able to uncover any proof but she knew Polly Spender had been placed at Lady Finchem's house by Mrs Haverford. It was not necessarily a bad thing that Beth was not directly involved with the agency, Harry thought, but she kept that to herself. ‘Something will turn up. You'll see.'

Beth grunted. ‘Anyway, I didn't invite you here to be a little ray of sunshine.' She glanced quickly around, then lowered her voice. ‘I've found out where Polly Spender is. It turns out she ain't working either – not since leaving her last place. She's back with her old mum and dad in Southwark.'

‘That is interesting,' Harry said. ‘I wonder why Mrs Haverford hasn't found her a new job.'

Beth leaned closer. ‘The word is she's not looking. Between you and me, I reckon little Polly Spender is scared of something. If someone were to make it worth her while, she might have some interesting things to say.'

Harry eyed her. ‘You've got her address?'

‘I have,' Beth replied, ‘but it's not the sort of area the likes of you should visit.'

She raised her eyebrows meaningfully and Harry knew exactly what she was getting at. The last time they had met, Beth had guessed Harry was not who she was pretending to be and had warned her to take more care over her disguise. ‘So what are you suggesting?' she said.

‘I'm not suggesting anything,' Beth countered. ‘I'm reminding you to have a care. Polly Spender comes from a bad family. They don't take kindly to outsiders.'

Harry wanted to throw up her hands in frustration. ‘Yes, I understand. So how am I supposed to find out what Polly knows?'

Beth squinted at the ceiling. ‘I could find out for you. For a small fee.'

And there it was, Harry thought, although she couldn't really blame Beth. No job meant no money and she had younger sisters at home. ‘How small a fee?' she asked.

‘Nothing outrageous,' Beth said. ‘Enough to make it worth my while. I might need a bit extra to persuade Polly to talk. And I'll pass on everything she tells me. Can't say fairer than that.'

Harry considered the offer. She did not have time to visit Polly herself – would it actually be more effective to allow Beth to do the job on her behalf? ‘Name your price.'

Beth did. It was more than Harry had expected but not by much. And perhaps Beth thought she might haggle but Harry had no taste for that. ‘Deal,' she said, and rummaged in her bag for the cloth purse she imagined Sarah Smith might use. She pushed three shillings across the table. ‘Here's half now; you'll get the rest once you've talked to Polly. If you keep your train tickets, I'll pay for those too.'

‘Blimey,' Beth said taking the money before Harry could change her mind, and perhaps before any of their fellow drinkers could observe her newfound wealth. ‘I should have asked for twice as much.'

Harry gave her a speculative look. ‘Do a good job and there might be more work for you. Let's see what you can get out of Polly first.'

Beth raised her glass and held it out towards Harry. ‘I'll drink to that, Sarah Smith. Cheers!'

Harry did not see Danny at the entrance to the bank when she arrived at her usual time on Thursday morning, but that was not a surprise. She hadn't seen him on Wednesday yet Patrick had assured he was fully recovered when she'd asked after him, which made her think he was avoiding her. The rudimentary burglar alarm Harry placed on the top of her office door each evening had been undisturbed for two nights now but a folded square of paper had been pushed under the door that morning. She looked at it for a moment, then bent to pick it up.

44 Norland Square

Holland Park

W11

Harry considered the untidy handwriting. Holmes would be able to tell everything about the author in a trice: which hand they used to write, where they had been to school and what they had eaten for breakfast. Harry knew none of these things but it was obvious who had written it. She had not yet accepted the doorman's desperate attempt to stave off the consequences of his actions but she had to admit the thought of discovering more about Cecily Earnshaw intrigued her.

Was it worth a visit to Norland Square? She need not admit that they shared a similarly unhappy experience and it would give her comfort to know she had something she could use against Simeon Pemberton if he ever came for her again. And Holland Park was no great distance – a mere six stops on the Underground from Oxford Circus. If she went directly from work, she would still be back in time to meet with John Archer and Oliver in the Winter Garden of the Landmark Hotel in Marylebone. She could even telephone Oliver in advance to warn him she might be a little delayed, to allow for an extended conversation with Cecily, if the young woman was at home. And then there was the small matter of offering a plausible enough reason to ask to see her, something that would not arouse suspicion in such a delicate situation. Harry would have to give it some thought.

Norland Square was a pleasant collection of Victorian terraced houses overlooking a private garden. Their white stucco-fronted walls stretched along all four sides, rising up over four storeys with cast-iron balconies punctuating the first floor over columned porches and identical black front doors. Harry rang the bell of number 44 and prepared a brisk smile. ‘Good afternoon,' she said to the maid who opened the front door. ‘Is Miss Cecily Earnshaw at home? I am Miss Foster, from the Abbey Road Building Society. I have some paperwork for her to sign.'

The girl stared at her, then glanced over her shoulder, as though hoping to consult someone else. Finally, she stepped back and opened the door wider. ‘You'd better come in.'

Harry did so and glanced around the airy hallway, taking in the fresh flowers on the gilt console table and the hushed air. ‘I assure you I won't take up too much of Miss Earnshaw's time.'

Once again, the maid looked uncertain. ‘Wait here.'

She disappeared along a narrow passageway to one side of the staircase and Harry presumed she was going to consult the housekeeper; the residents of Norland Square were clearly wealthy but she did not think any of them would employ a butler. Moments later, the maid returned but she was not in the company of another servant. Unless Harry was very much mistaken, the woman who was eyeing her with cold mistrust was the lady of the house – Mrs Earnshaw herself. ‘Can I help you?'

Her tone was chilly, giving Harry the impression that help was the last thing she intended to offer. She adopted an efficient tone. ‘As I explained to your maid, my name is Miss Foster, from the Abbey Road Building Society. I'm looking for Cecily Earnshaw, who was until recently employed by the bank. Are you her mother?'

Mrs Earnshaw continued to regard Harry without warmth. ‘She left the bank months ago. What is this about?'

Harry patted the folder she carried under one arm. ‘It appears the bank did not complete all the paperwork to sever her employment – a regrettable oversight on our part, for which I wholeheartedly apologise. I have the papers with me now. It should not take very long.'

The older woman held out her hand. ‘Cecily is not here. But you may leave the papers. I will see to it that she signs them.'

Harry did not move. ‘Unfortunately, they are of a confidential nature. I cannot share them with anyone other than Miss Earnshaw herself.'

‘I am her mother,' Mrs Earnshaw said, drawing herself up and favouring Harry with a haughty glower. ‘You may entrust them to me.'

‘Even so, I cannot leave them,' Harry said, with polite determination. ‘Perhaps there is another, more suitable time I might return to see her.'

‘There is not,' she snapped. ‘My daughter no longer lives here, Miss Foster. If you cannot leave the papers with me for her to sign at a later date, then the matter must remain unresolved.'

Harry blinked and tried to cover her surprise. ‘But the… the papers. The outstanding signature?—'

‘Must remain outstanding,' Mrs Earnshaw cut in. ‘Now, I must ask that you leave. Do not call here again – you will not be admitted.'

Turning on her heel, she crossed the hallway and disappeared down the same passageway from which she had come. Harry stared after her, shocked by both the coldness with which the woman had uttered her daughter's name and the rudeness she had displayed. The maid hovered anxiously at Harry's side. ‘Shall I show you out, miss?'

‘Yes,' Harry said, recovering her composure enough to nod at the girl. ‘Thank you.'

She made her way slowly along the street, replaying the interview in her mind. Was Mrs Earnshaw telling the truth when she said Cecily did not live there any longer? It was possible she was lying to protect her daughter from an inquisitive stranger, which was perfectly understandable in the circumstances. But if that were the case, Harry would find it almost impossible to speak to Cecily alone, if at all. Sighing, she turned the corner and made for the Underground station. At least she would not be late to meet Mr Archer. But she had not taken more than a few steps when she became aware of running feet behind her and a breathless voice calling her name. ‘Miss Foster!'

Harry turned to see the Earnshaws' maid hurrying towards her, a coat thrown over her uniform. When the girl was near enough, she thrust out a hand. ‘Here. This is Cecily's address.'

‘Her address?' Harry repeated, taking the small square of paper. ‘Where is she?'

‘In Brighton,' the maid said. ‘With her aunt. No surprise after how she was treated.'

She almost spat the words, leaving Harry in no doubt over what must have followed Cecily's disgrace at the bank. ‘Her parents sent her away?'

The maid nodded. ‘Said she was an embarrassment to them, a stain on their good name. Can you believe it? Their own flesh and blood!'

Having met Mrs Earnshaw, Harry found it all too easy to believe. Unfolding the paper, she read the address: ‘11 Circus Street, Brighton.'

‘It never sat right with me, what they done. Just sending her off like that, with no thought for how she might support herself.' The maid flashed a rebellious look at Harry. ‘If you do see her, tell her Susanna sends her best.'

‘I will,' Harry said, and smiled. ‘I'm sure it will mean a lot to her.'

Susanna bobbed, then glanced over her shoulder. ‘I'd better get back, before they miss me.'

Harry nodded. ‘Go. And thank you. I'll see what may be done to help Cecily.'

She watched as the girl made her way back towards the corner and disappeared into Norland Square once more, then resumed her journey towards Holland Park station, deep in thought. It seemed a trip to Brighton was on the horizon. There might be more to Cecily Earnshaw's story than she had realised.