husband. I only came with you to see you settled in. Perhaps Aunt Elizabeth can help you.”
“Aunt Elizabeth is a stickler for the conventions, but I can try. I’ll visit you as often as I can, Daisy. Ask Brum to get you a carriage to take you to Chelsea.”
Daisy gave Rose a fierce hug. She went downstairs and waited in the hall for the carriage to be brought round.
As she climbed into the carriage, she had an odd feeling of being watched. She stood with one foot on the step and looked around. There was a man with a barrel organ at a corner of the square, cranking out wheezy tunes, a nursemaid with a child, a footman walking a dog, but no one sinister-looking.
The house in Chelsea was deserted. She found a note in the room she shared with her husband. Becket had written, “Dear Daisy, Gone out with the captain on a case. Love you.”
Daisy felt restless. The rest of the day stretched before her, empty and boring. They should have waited and taken her with them. She was now supposed to be a detective as well.
She took off her hat and went downstairs to the parlour and sat down to read the newspapers. Daisy came across an advertisement for Miss Friendly’s salon, announcing the grand opening in a month’s time. She took a note of the address and decided to go and visit Miss Friendly.
The salon was in a small shop at the bottom of Hay Hill in Mayfair. Daisy rang the bell and waited. The door was opened by Phil Marshall.
“Come in,” cried Phil. “The missus will be glad to see you.”
“You’re married?”
“Yes, we thought it was the respectable thing to do. Mrs Marshall is in the workroom.”
He led the way up rickety stairs to a room at the top. Miss Friendly – I’ll always think of her as that, thought Daisy – was stitching away at rich material. There were three other seamstresses in the room.
“Miss Levine!” cried Miss Friendly. “How good to see you. How is Lady Rose?”
“Very well, but I am no longer her companion. I am married to Becket.”
“How splendid.”
“We did plan to start a salon with you,” said Daisy severely.
“I know. I am so sorry. But you were not in London and Mr Marshall was so ready to help.”
“It’s all right,” said Daisy. “Are you getting ready for the big opening?”
“Oh, yes. I do hope you will come. I am going to be very bold. I am introducing a few ‘reform’ clothes in my collection.”
These clothes were the original brainchild of the Reform Movement, which urged women to stop being ‘lust objects’. For a long time they had fought a losing battle against the corset, blaming that argument for every illness from sore throats to corns. Doctors complained that the absence of a corset weakened the muscles. They said, “A good corset is best, a bad corset is bad, no corset is worst.”
“Do you think that is wise?” asked Daisy. “These society ladies do not want to be comfortable. They change their clothes six times a day. Maybe they want to be lust objects.”
“I am sure some of the more elderly women would welcome freedom from all the constrictions of fashionable dress.”
“I saw an interesting gown in Paris for the working girl,” said Daisy. “It was a navy-blue tailor-made with a washable blouse and a pleated skirt which showed the wearer’s entire foot.”
Miss Friendly looked shocked. “Exposing the whole foot! Oh, no, now that would be going too far.”
Daisy asked to see some of the collection and spent a pleasant hour before returning to Chelsea. The house was still empty and she wondered what Becket was doing.
¦
Becket was at Scotland Yard with his master, Kerridge having summoned Harry.
“Jeffrey Biles has hanged himself in his cell,” said Kerridge.
“Well, that’s the end of that,” said Harry. “Saves the state a court case.”
“That’s not what’s bothering me. He kept protesting that he had not murdered either his sister or Madame de Peurey. He admitted having gone to see Dolores. He admitted having taken some of her jewels. He admitted the assault on Lady Rose in Paris. So I asked him if he hadn’t murdered the women, who had? ‘I’m waiting for something,’ he said. This was yesterday. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow at ten in the morning.’ I thought it would probably he a load of rubbish, but I went down to Pentonville Prison this morning, and there he was, hanged and dead as a doornail.”
“How had he hanged himself?”
“With a strip he’d torn off his sheets.”
“No note?”
“No.”
“Odd. I’d like to see the body.”
“Why?”
“I’d just like to be sure he hanged himself.”
“You’re clutching at straws. Case closed.”
“Humour me.”
“Oh, very well. I’ll take you to the morgue myself.”
¦
Harry stared down at the dead body laid out on a slab in the mortuary. He regarded the distorted face with distaste. Then he said to the morgue attendant, “Please turn the body over.”
“Hurry up,” growled Kerridge. “This place gives me the creeps.”
The body was turned over. Harry removed his gloves and examined the back of the head. “Didn’t you see this?” he asked. “Look here.”
Kerridge walked forward. “See the matted hair and blood on the back of his head?” said Harry. “Someone struck him a blow and maybe that someone hanged him.”
Kerridge swung round in a fury. “Hasn’t the pathologist examined this body?”
“Didn’t seem no rush,” said the attendant. “Prison doctor signed the death certificate. Suicide.”
“I’ll get the pathologist to do a proper autopsy,” said Kerridge. “We’d better get over to Pentonville and find out if he had any visitors.”
¦
But at the prison they were informed that no one had come to see Biles. The warder who had taken him his evening meal said he looked distraught and that he had been crying.
“Where had be been living?” asked Harry when they left the prison.
“Place down the Mile End Road.”
“I’d like to go there.”
“Why? The room’s been cleaned up. The landlord wants to re-let it.”
“Just a look.”
“Oh, very well. Your man can drive us there.”
¦
The landlord reluctantly opened the door of what had been Jeffrey Biles’s last address. “Don’t go mucking around,” he said. “I got someone for this room.”
“Mind your manners,” snapped Kerridge.
The room was dismal. The dingy window which overlooked the street did not have any curtains. There was a narrow iron bedstead in one corner. A rickety table and one chair stood in the middle of the floor. A small fireplace surmounted by a grimy mirror was against one wall. Beside the fireplace stood a scuttle full of coal and a shovel and poker.
“He might have hidden something,” murmured Harry.
“Don’t think so. We even looked up the chimney.”
“Did you raise the floorboards?”
“Captain, we had our man. And look at the floorboards. Not obviously haven’t any of them been raised in years but neither have they been cleaned in years. I hate the smell in these lice-infested tenements. It sticks to my clothes. Let’s go.”
“A few minutes.”
