Chapter 9

9

Harry's hands shook for a full thirty minutes after she had left the bank for the day. Would the intruder be tempted back by the arrival of a third telegram? And, if they were, would Harry's carefully laid trap spring in the way she intended? Oliver was right – it was a risky strategy. The presence of the trap would make it apparent Harry knew someone had broken in. There could be unexpected consequences.

To distract herself, she detoured to St James' Square on the way home, and spent a calming twenty minutes browsing the stacks of the London Library. She left with a copy of Mortlake's Common and Uncommon Poisons under her arm. If she found herself unable to sleep, she could at least try to identify the cause of Philip St John's illness.

She awoke early, having fallen asleep over the chapter concerning garden poisons and dreamt of evil-looking potions she was expected to drink. Her face was pale in the mirror above the bathroom sink and she spent more time than usual trying to give her cheeks some colour. But at last it was time to leave for work. She did not want to draw attention to herself by arriving early.

Patrick nodded to her as she approached, pulling the door open wide to allow her through. ‘Good morning, Miss White,' he said. ‘How are you today?'

Harry smiled, although her gaze flew automatically to his right hand, which was resting on the brass door handle. She had left the handle of her office smeared with a thin layer of Vaseline, on top of which she had carefully painted a coating of the antiseptic tincture, Gentian Violet. Anyone who gripped the handle firmly, or even brushed against it, would find their skin indelibly stained a brilliant violet. The grooms at Abinger Hall used it to disinfect the horses' hooves and Harry had seen the results when they had not taken enough care to protect themselves, and no amount of scrubbing removed it. If anyone other than Harry had tried to enter the office, they would be obviously branded. But Patrick's fingers were clean and unstained. Not him, Harry thought to herself, unless he was left-handed. But a quick downward glance told her his other hand was unmarked too.

‘I'm very well, thank you. Are you on your own today?'

‘It appears so,' the doorman said, with a good-natured grimace. ‘I'll be busy, if nothing else.'

It was on the tip of Harry's tongue to ask where Danny was, but she knew the question would seem improper. Instead, she adopted a sympathetic expression. ‘I do hope Danny is not unwell.'

‘I'll be sure to pass on your good wishes,' Patrick replied as she passed inside.

At the door to her office, Harry took a moment to study the handle. Was it her imagination or was the layer of Vaseline smudged? It was hard to tell. But she could not linger outside to examine it too closely. With a quick glance along the corridor to make sure she was not observed, she pulled a pair of gloves from her bag, and the damp muslin cloth she had brought from home. Taking great care, she wiped the handle clean of both the tincture and the jelly. When she was satisfied not a trace remained, she slotted the key into the lock. She was just about to turn it when she remembered the other precaution she had taken – the hair she had once again trapped between the door and the frame. Peering upwards, she searched for the single golden strand. She did not find it. The breath caught in her throat. There was only one way it could have been dislodged it. Someone had been in her office.

She did not imagine they were still there now but, even so, she opened the door with caution. As before, nothing looked out of place, apart from a silvery trace of Vaseline along the edge of the filing cabinet and a small purple smudge on the telegram she had deliberately left unopened on her desk. She was certain now that the intruder had fallen foul of the trap she had laid. The evidence was smeared all over her office.

Methodically, she set about wiping it away and then settled at her desk to start work. When Bobby arrived with the latest batch of letters, she surreptitiously studied his hands. They looked the same as always: pale, with fingernails bitten to the quick, and without even a hint of violet staining. ‘What's the gossip from the post room today?' she asked him conversationally. ‘Is there anything of note to report?'

Bobby scratched his chin. ‘Nothing springs to mind,' he said, after examining the ceiling in thoughtful silence. ‘It's Harold's birthday – he's forty-one today. And someone ate Mr Babbage's custard tart, which he isn't best pleased about.'

‘I should imagine he's not,' Harry said, her lips quirking. ‘But please wish Harold many happy returns from me.'

‘I will,' Bobby said, looking a little surprised.

Harry took a breath, wondering how to ask whether anyone was afflicted by unusual violet stains. ‘Is everyone quite well? I do hope no one has been taken unexpectedly ill.'

Now Bobby stared at her. ‘Bernard says his bunion is playing up, but he's always complaining about that. Oh, and Jasper didn't turn up this morning. Mr Babbage says he's got toothache.'

She filed the name away, wondering as she did so whether the man's absence was genuinely down to toothache, or the fact that his hands were dyed purple. She had no idea what motive he might have for breaking into her office, not once but twice. It couldn't be simple inquisitiveness, surely. ‘Have you delivered to the upper floors, yet?' she asked suddenly. ‘Specifically to Mr Pemberton's office.'

‘I did,' Bobby said, now frowning at her. ‘And before you ask after his health, he's not at work today, either. I don't know why – I'm only the post boy.'

Harry beamed at him. ‘Thank you, Bobby. That's very helpful.'

Once he had taken his trolley off to the next stop on his rounds, Harry jotted down the three absentees she had identified so far: Danny the doorman, Jasper from the post room, and Simeon Pemberton. Of the three, only Pemberton had what she considered to be a solid motive for prying into her business, but he was the kind of man she could not imagine doing his own dirty work, no matter how much she had enraged him. Jasper could be responsible, perhaps egged on by his colleagues to discover what crimes the telegrams were reporting; he would have been disappointed by what he read. And lastly, there was Danny, who was already under suspicion of spying for Pemberton. He was the one Harry suspected the most but she would have to wait until he returned to work to find out whether she was right.

It was a little after four o'clock when Harry left the bank. She smiled at Patrick, who wished her a pleasant evening, and set off for home. Dusk had already fallen and there was a dampness to the December air that made Harry tighten her scarf a little more closely around her neck. Some women wore furs to keep the cold at bay but the sight of them always made her melancholy, for as splendid and luxurious as the coats were, they had undoubtedly looked better on the animal. When she was not visiting the library, or meeting friends, it was her habit to take the Underground to Oxford Circus and walk the rest of the way to her apartment in Hamilton Square. Sometimes she detoured into the shops along the way, but Christmas shoppers had already begun to clog Oxford Street, eager to see the window displays at Selfridges, and Harry had no desire to get caught up in their midst.

She cut along Hanover Street and across the square, and from there she took Brook Street. But it wasn't until she paused to cross New Bond Street that she realised she was being followed. A man trailed some yards behind her, his trilby hat lowered and his face muffled by a scarf. His greatcoat was plain black, the collar turned up against the cold, but she had noticed him behind her in the queue at Baker Street. He hadn't caught her attention in the crowd, and she hadn't observed him near her on the train, but he had been there as she left Oxford Circus. And now he was here.

Heart thudding, Harry paused as though looking in the window of an expensive jewellery shop and used the reflection to observe her pursuer. If he carried on walking, she might be mistaken. But he did not continue on. He stopped, almost clumsily, and gazed into another shop window. Harry moved on at a leisurely pace, one eye on his movements, hoping she was wrong. Whoever he was, she could not allow him to follow her home.

She set off again, at pace this time, and led him briskly along Grosvenor Street. There was no doubt in her mind now; when she crossed the road, so did he. When she dawdled to window- shop, he did too. It occurred to her that she had two choices. Either she could try to lose him in the warren of cut-throughs and alleyways that made up Mayfair, or she could confront him and demand to know his business. And if she was going to attempt the latter, she needed to do it somewhere open and surrounded by people. She needed Berkeley Square.

She saw him hesitate as she entered by the northern gate but she kept going. There were not as many people there as she would have liked; it was almost fully dark and the streetlights created puddles of light in some parts and deep shadows in others. Harry took a seat on one of the benches and waited to see what he would do. He came idly along the path, as though out for an evening stroll, but could find no plausible reason to stop and was forced to continue past Harry. In a flash, she got to her feet and hurried after him. ‘You there,' she said in a clear, distinct voice. ‘Why have you been following me?'

He spun round, his face still obscured, both hands stuffed in his pockets. ‘I want to know what you've done to me,' he growled.

Harry frowned. The voice was somewhat familiar but she couldn't quite place it. ‘What on earth do you mean?'

With a rough gesture, he dragged the scarf away from his face with one gloved hand. A large violet stain covered his chin. ‘How do I get it off?'

She understood everything then. He must have touched his face after he had turned the door handle. ‘I'm afraid you can't, Danny,' she said, doing her best to sound calm. ‘It's Gentian Violet – an antiseptic tincture. It won't do you any harm but it does take several months to fade.'

His hands balled into fists and she had to fight an urge to take a step backwards. ‘You did this. I couldn't go to work today because of it.'

Harry held her head high. ‘You have no one to blame but yourself. First thing tomorrow, I plan to tell Mr Babbage what you've done.' She glanced at his gloved hands. ‘I daresay there's plenty more evidence.'

His demeanour changed, as though the full implications of his misfortune were only just becoming clear. ‘It's your word against mine.'

‘That might be true, if your guilt was not written all over your face.'

Danny looked as though he would argue, then dug his fists miserably into his pockets once again. ‘Don't do that. They'll sack me.'

‘Why shouldn't I?' she demanded. ‘You broke into an office of the Abbey Road Building Society to read confidential correspondence not addressed to you. That is a criminal offence. You should lose your job.'

He threw her a wretched look. ‘I admit it sounds bad when you put it like that. But I was just doing what Mr… what I was told to do. And I didn't even read the letters, not properly. All I had to find out was what those telegrams said.'

‘Who told you to do it, Danny?' she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

Danny sighed. ‘Mr Pemberton. He wasn't happy when I said I could only find one.'

The confirmation of her suspicion did not make Harry feel any better – in fact, the doorman's words caused her an even deeper moment of uneasiness. The existence of the second telegram was common knowledge; she would have to account for it if an official enquiry was ever made. Perhaps, once the case was over, she would file it with its sibling and deny, if asked, that she had gone to the Garston Club to meet with Archer. It would not be a lie, after all. ‘But why should he care what the telegrams said?'

‘I don't know.' Danny gave her a piteous look. ‘I got nothing against you, Miss White. I was only doing what he said I should. It's no secret he's got it in for you, ever since you embarrassed him, but I've never done you wrong.'

Harry raised her eyebrows in disbelief. ‘You don't consider spying on me as wrong? I know you've been reporting back to him about my timekeeping. You were the one who told him when I was late back from lunch, weren't you?'

There had been an occasion during Harry's investigation into Mildred Longstaff's disappearance when she had been unavoidably caught up and had returned late to the bank. Somehow, Mr Babbage had come to hear of it and he had strongly suggested that Simeon Pemberton had reported her indiscretion to him. Danny's gaze slid sideways, as though he was thinking about denying her accusation, then he shrugged. ‘It didn't seem that bad at first. All I had to do was watch when you came and went. You don't know what it's like, being a doorman. Most people walk past like you're not even there. Then Mr Pemberton gave me this job and it seemed like he trusted me. I thought maybe if I did what he said, he might find me a better job somewhere else in the bank.'

She shook her head. ‘And then you graduated to burglary. Congratulations, Danny. Lots of people are going to notice you now.'

The doorman's eyes widened in panic. ‘Don't grass me up. I could help you.' He cast around for something to offer her. ‘I could give you information – things you can use against him. That girl he forced to leave – I know where she lives. I bet she'd give you some good dirt, if you spoke to her.'

Thoughtfully, she considered the offer. Judging from their acrimonious encounter in the lift, Harry suspected there would come a time when Simeon Pemberton decided he wanted to remove her from the bank entirely. He'd told her she had no proof – perhaps it would be useful to have solid evidence she could use to defend herself. ‘What's her name?'

‘Cecily,' he said eagerly. ‘Cecily Earnshaw. She lives with her parents over Holland Park way. I could get you her address, if you promise not to tell Mr Babbage what I've done.'

Harry eyed his stained chin with something approaching pity. ‘I don't know how you're going to explain that away.'

‘I'll keep my scarf pulled up,' he said. ‘It's cold enough to get away with it and, like I said, most people don't even look at me.'

She sighed. Could she really trust someone who had already betrayed her? ‘I'll think about your offer. If I decide to accept, I'll let you know.'

Danny opened his mouth as if to argue, then thought better of it. ‘Thank you. And I'm sorry if I scared you. I didn't know what else to do.'

‘I'm not that easily scared,' she said, and it was almost true. ‘But all the same, don't ever do it again.'

‘No, Miss White,' he said fervently. ‘I won't.'

She watched him all the way out of the gate, and then gave it a further ten minutes before she left and set off once more for Hamilton Square. Was the address of Cecily Earnshaw something she needed? The story she would offer must be depressingly predictable. And yet Danny had a point – it would give Harry something to hold over Simeon Pemberton when he eventually came for her. It was worthy of consideration, at least.