“What?”
“About Freddy Pomfret. When I was working as secretary, one of the clerks came in and said, ‘Mr Pomfret has very generous friends.’ Mr Beveridge asked him what he meant and he said, ‘Three people have paid large deposits into his account so we don’t need to send him any more letters about his overdraft.’”
“Probably his relatives. But why didn’t they pay up before? What you getting at?”
Rose was about to correct Daisy’s grammar and remind her not to be so familiar but in time remembered that they were supposed to be on an equal footing.
“There must be some reason he was murdered. What if he was blackmailing people?”
Daisy looked doubtful. She thought it highly unlikely. The Freddy she remembered was silly but not villainous. Still, if Rose’s detective urges had started up again, perhaps she would get in touch with Captain Cathcart. Daisy had a fondness for the captain’s servant, Becket.
“We could ask Captain Cathcart.”
“Perhaps. I would like to see the books and then perhaps go to Scotland Yard and talk to Superintendent Kerridge.”
Daisy’s face fell. “Could we see the captain first?”
But Rose wanted to show the infuriating Harry that she could be a better detective than he was.
“I’ll see what I can do tomorrow.”
“If we can even get to work,” Daisy pointed out.
¦
The next morning was cold and still but the snow had stopped. As Rose and Daisy slipped and stumbled their way along to the underground station at Holborn, Rose wished she had packed her riding breeches. These long skirts and petticoats were useless attire for getting to work through a snowfall.
The City was quiet, shrouded in a blanket of snow. They had to knock at the bank door to gain admittance. At last one of the clerks opened the door to them.
“Nobody’s turned up except me,” he said. “I keep the door locked because anyone could walk in and rob the bank. Charles, the doorman, hasn’t turned up and he’s really got no excuse. He lives in the City. May I get you ladies anything? Tea?”
“Maybe later,” said Rose. “We’ll let you know. Thank you.”
Once they were in their office, Rose whispered, “This is a perfect opportunity. I’ll go upstairs to the counting-house and start searching.”
“What about the banking hall?”
“The records won’t be there. In any case, everything in the banking hall will be tightly locked.”
Daisy lit the fire and then waited impatiently. Outside, she could hear the scraping of shovels and then the swish of brooms as the street-sweepers got to work. A shaft of sunlight suddenly shone down through the grimy window.
Then there came a banging at the front door. Daisy stayed where she was, nervously chewing at a thumbnail.
She heard the clerk running down the stairs. She stood up and opened the door of her office a crack. She heard the doorman complaining that he had a bad leg and it had taken him ages to struggle through the snow and then a female voice. Mrs Danby. Oh, where was Rose?
An hour passed. Daisy was just about to go out and up the stairs in case Rose was in trouble when the door opened and Rose slipped in.
“Where have you been?” hissed Daisy.
Rose sank down in her chair. “It took me ages. But I’ve got some interesting information. Get on your coat and hat, Daisy. We’re going to Scotland Yard. I telephoned Detective Superintendent Kerridge.”
“But what about old Danby?”
“We’ll just need to risk her not knowing we even turned up for work.” They covered their typewriters and put on their coats, hats and gloves. Opening the door of their office, they crept out. To their relief, they could hear the doorman complaining about his leg to someone in the banking hall off to the left of the main door.
“Quickly,” said Rose.
? Hasty Death ?
Four
Sir Theodore Martin
Detective Superintendent Kerridge found he was looking forward to meeting Lady Rose again. After he had received her telephone call, he had in turn phoned Captain Cathcart. It pleased him to think they would all be together again, as they had been during that investigation the previous year at Telby Castle.
Kerridge was a grey man: grey hair, grey eyebrows, heavy grey moustache. He stood at the window of his office looking out at the Thames, and while he waited, he wrapped himself in one of his favourite dreams. In his mind he was a thinner, younger Kerridge manning the barricades at the People’s Revolution of England. “Down with the aristocrats!” he yelled and his supporters cheered. A beautiful young girl threw her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth. Kerridge blinked that part of the dream away. It was wrong to be unfaithful to his wife, even in dreams.
The door opened and Inspector Judd ushered Harry Cathcart in. “What’s this all about?” asked Harry.
“I received a telephone call from Lady Rose. She says she has vital information concerning the death of Freddy Pomfret.”
“I don’t know how she could have come by any information about society at all in her present occupation.”
“Which is?”
“I’d better see if she wants to tell you.”
The door opened again. “Lady Rose Summer and Miss Levine,” announced Judd.
“Your maid may wait outside,” said the detective, who had met Daisy before.
“Miss Levine is no longer my maid. She is my friend. She may stay.”
“Where’s Becket?” asked Daisy.
“In Chelsea,” said Harry. Daisy’s face fell.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Rose.
“I was summoned by Mr Kerridge,” said Harry, looking at Rose and thinking that a working life did not suit her. The hem of her coat was soaking from melted snow, her face was thinner and her eyes tired.
“Please sit down,” ordered Kerridge. “Tea?”
“Oh, I would like tea,” said Rose, “and perhaps some biscuits. We are very hungry.”
Kerridge picked up the phone and ordered tea, biscuits and cakes.
“Now, Lady Rose,” he said. “Tell me what you have found out.”
“Miss Levine and I have been working as typists at Drevey’s Bank.”
“Why were you working as a typewriter?” asked Kerridge, who did not approve of new-fangled words like ‘typist’.
“Because I wished to earn my living.”
“But you are taking employment away from some woman who really needs it,” said Kerridge.
“On the contrary. Captain Cathcart here arranged the work and it is make-work. Neither Miss Levine nor I are doing anything constructive. But if we could move on from your radical views, sir…”
“Go on.”
“For a short time I was working for a Mr Beveridge as his secretary. While I was in his office, one of the clerks came in and said something about large sums of money being deposited in Freddy Pomfret’s account.
“Today, because of the snow, the bank was quiet, few having turned up to work. I went upstairs and searched until I found a statement of his account. During the last few months, three large sums of money were paid into that account. Each for ten thousand pounds.”
