hat is too grand, Daisy. I’ll give you a plain one to wear.”
Daisy removed her cartwheel straw hat embellished with sprigs of artificial lavender and reluctantly put on a plain straw boater. Rose was wearing a blouse and skirt with a light coat and a broad-brimmed felt hat without any embellishment.
“We must get out before Mama wakes or she will insist on sending footmen with us,” said Rose. “This is fun! Quite like old times.”
“Rose,” said Daisy cautiously, “have you considered that if Jeffrey did not kill his sister and that Frenchwoman, there might be a murderer out there?”
“I should be safe,” said Rose. “Say it is someone else who was manipulating Jeffrey into trying to put the blame on me, well, now, as far as he knows, he has a scapegoat in the late Jeffrey.”
“Still, he might be dangerous,” said Daisy. “I mean, if he murdered Jeffrey, how did he manage to do it?”
“Some visitor?”
“I asked Becket and he asked the captain last night after dinner. The captain said that no one was logged in the prison book.”
“Odd. But let’s go.”
¦
Harry arrived at 19 Sordey Street. It was still a grocer’s shop, a small dingy place. He opened the door and a bell tied by a rope above the door clanged loudly. A woman was behind the counter, slapping butter into blocks with two wooden paddles.
“Can I ‘elp you?” she asked.
She was a tall, thin woman with a lantern-jawed face and her hair tied tightly in a scarlet kerchief – the type of woman, Harry thought, who might have knitted below the scaffold during the French Revolution.
“I believe a Mr Biles used to own this shop,” he said.
“So what’s that to you?”
Harry presented his card. She squinted at it and then glared at him. “We don’t like nosy parkers round ‘ere.”
“It’s a simple question. Did a Mr Biles own this shop?”
“If you’re not buying anythink, shove off.”
¦
Rose and Daisy saw Becket’s car outside the shop and told the driver to go farther along the street. “We’ll wait until they’ve gone,” said Rose. “I think Harry would send me home if he saw me.”
Rose peered out the small back window. “Harry’s come out. He looks angry. I don’t think he got anywhere.”
“They don’t trust people asking questions around here,” said Daisy, feeling confident now that she was back in her home ground of London’s East End. “I tell you what. When we go in, you don’t say anything. Leave the talking to me. We’d better buy a lot of stuff. I bet they never thought of that.”
They waited until they saw them drive off. Telling the cabbie to wait, they made their way back to the shop.
Daisy smiled brightly at the woman behind the counter and her voice changed back to its old Cockney accent as she asked, “Got any ham, luv?”
“Fine bit o’ Wiltshire.”
“I’ll take a pound o’ that.”
“A pound!” The woman’s grim features lightened.
She heaved a ham onto the slicing machine. “You’re not from around here?”
“Used ter be,” chirped Daisy. “I was in the chorus at Butler’s.”
“Was you now? I used ter go there Saturday nights. Luvverley it was.”
“I’m down visiting me family. I’ll take a pound of butter as well. I know everywhere around ‘ere. Hey, wasn’t there a grumpy man who used to own this shop? Can’t remember his name. Oh, a pound of sugar as well.”
“That ud be Biles. Died o’ a heart attack. The son sold the shop to me.” She lowered her voice. “The son, Jeffrey, been banged up for murder.”
“Never!” screeched Daisy.
“Yus. Murdered his own sister.”
“Did you know the sister?”
“‘Member her, way back. Pretty little thing. Ran away. He used to beat ‘er. He wanted ‘er to go with Mr Jones, him what owned the haberdashery down the Mile End Road. Lived in Breem Lane. Now, she was but fifteen and Jones was in ‘is late thirties. Scandal, it were. Betty, that was the daughter, she said she wouldn’t and Biles beat the living daylights out of her. She took the money out of the till and just went off. Can’t say I blame her.”
“I’m sure this Mr Jones found someone else.”
“Yes, he got himself a nice little bride and it all worked out in the end.”
Daisy paid for the groceries and they left and walked back to the waiting cab. “That ham did not look fresh,” said Rose. “Give it away.”
“If I give it away to someone nearby, word’ll get back to her. Let’s find out where Breem Lane is.”
¦
Breem Lane was narrow and dirty. Scruffy children without shoes played in the dirt. Blowsy women hung out of windows and stared at the carriage.
“Better let me go on with the talking,” said Daisy as they both stood uneasily by the cab.
She shouted up to a fat woman at one of the windows, “Mr Jones, the haberdasher, live here?”
“Naw, left to go live uptown.”
“Where would that be?”
The woman half turned her head and shouted, “Marigold!”
“What is it, Ma?” a voice called from inside the flat.
“Someone wanting Jones’s address. ‘Member, him what ‘ad the haberdashery?”
“Notting Hill it were. Chepstow Mansions. Real posh. Liza went to do the cleaning once, but they got rid o’ her.”
Daisy thanked the woman. They got back in the cab. “Notting Hill,” Daisy shouted up to the driver. “Chepstow Mansions.”
“You’re running up a fearsome bill,” grumbled the cabby.
“Get on with you,” ordered Daisy. “We’ve got the money.”
She lowered the trap in the roof and sank back next to Rose. “You have got the money, I hope,” said Daisy.
“Yes, I came prepared. Oh, wait. Look at that poor woman. I don’t think she’s had a meal in ages.” Rose rapped on the roof with her parasol and the cab came to a halt.
“Give her the groceries,” said Rose.
Daisy got out of the cab and handed the woman the paper bags full of groceries and then quickly got back in again. “Drive on,” she shouted.
¦
Meanwhile, Harry and Becket had spent a weary time looking for the witnesses, George and Sarah Briggs. No one seemed to have heard of them. But people regarded them with suspicion.
At last, Becket cleared his throat and said cautiously, “You might try offering money for information, sir. If I were you, I would start with one shilling and a bright child.”
“I think we’re attracting too much attention with this motor. Drive off and park it somewhere up in the City – then we’ll take a cab and when we get back here, we’ll walk about on foot.”
When they returned to Sordey Street, Harry spotted a child who could have posed for an illustration of the Artful Dodger. He was lounging against a lamp post, his hands in his pockets.
“Would you like to earn some money?” asked Harry.
“What for?”
“Information. I’m trying to find a Mr George Briggs, a driver.”
The boy took off his battered hat and stared thoughtfully inside as if consulting the oracle. “How much,
