I stretched out a finger and touched the little bow. “However, I have to say, the shoe we found wasn't quite as pretty as this one. It looked as if Lally'd been made to walk through puddles in it.”
“But she's only had the shoes for a week,” she exclaimed.
I kept all trace of triumph from my face. “Yes, I thought they looked new. A week, you say?”
“Almost to the hour. Monday last, they were. One of my first sales of the day. I notice those early sales,” she confided. “I find the weeks tend to continue as they begin.”
“Did she come in herself, to buy them?”
“I'm afraid not,” the woman answered, clearly much taken with the scenario of a foolish girl whose love led to near-imprisonment.
“Was it him, then? Tall, thin?”
But she was shaking her head before I started the second sentence-and with a jolt I realised that I felt relief at her denial, because my vague description could also be a specific description of Damian. “Those shoes were purchased by a woman.”
“Yes? Not an Oriental woman, though?” I asked, holding my breath.
“No, an older woman. And, frankly,” she added, lowering her voice lest a Harrods' authority might hear, “not the sort of person I'd have expected to be interested in those shoes.”
Person, not
“Secretary, perhaps, although if so I trust the gentleman does not have much dealing with the public. She wore an unfortunate dress and would have benefited from face-powder,” the saleswoman declared in sorrow. “As for the dye in her hair, it was as subtle as boot-black.”
Millicent Dunworthy.
The second-storey flat of the stand-in leader of the Children of Lights services appeared to be empty-at least, there was no response to ringing the bell beside the name Dunworthy at the entrance. I put my laden shopping basket on the landing and squinted down at a piece of paper. A few minutes later, one of the residents came down the stairs and attempted to get out of the door.
“Oh! Sorry,” I exclaimed, “I seem to be in the way. Here, let me just move that-no, it's fine, I was just rereading this in the light, silly of me not to think-” The door shut on my self-effacing apology, with me on the inside and the man going down the steps, shaking his head.
There is nothing so disarming as a basket of vegetables and an attitude of feminine disorganisation.
I put the sheet of paper-an advertisement from a hair-cutting salon-into my pocket and carried the basket (which held mostly lettuces, for their lightness) up the stairs. The hallway was empty; the stairway door squeaked as it drew itself shut. I listened, but heard nothing, so I walked down to the end where the light had gone on the other night, and knocked softly.
When there was no answer, I put the basket on a table in the corridor and got to work with my pick-locks.
Millicent Dunworthy's flat consisted of three rooms: The largest combined sitting room-worn upholstered chairs, a chipped deal desk, and a wireless set-with kitchen-little more than gas ring, cupboard, and a table scarcely large enough for two. A pair of doors broke the side wall: The one on the right led to a bedroom with a narrow single bed, a cheap white-painted dressing-table, and a wardrobe that was too large for the room, so that the door hit against it rather than opening all the way to the wall. The other door was to a small lavatory with a wash-basin. The bath-room must be a shared one down the hall.
I moved through the rooms, confirming that the occupant was not there, and confirming also that the only escape, should I be discovered, would be a sheer drop to the pavement, twenty-five feet below. Then I got to work, starting in the bedroom.
The wardrobe contained clothing as dull and worn as the chairs in the sitting area, showing a preference for flowered blouses and sack-like skirts, the one striking exception being the white robe she had worn in the meeting hall. The dressing-table held little of interest but a jewellery box that might have been a present for a child's thirteenth birthday. The scraps of adornment it held were commonplace and without monetary value, with one exception: the coarse gold band I had seen her wearing. My finger felt scratches on its inner surface; when I carried it near the window, I saw the same overlapping triangle and circle that had been embroidered on the robe and tattooed on Yolanda Adler's abdomen.
Other than that, the ring contained no inscription. I put it back as I had found it, and closed the childish box.
The wash-room contained nothing more sinister than mild medical nostrums-no drugs in the water-closet, no cipher-books among the bath-towels.
The desk in the sitting room, somewhat prosaically, was where Millicent Dunworthy kept her secrets. The desk-diary was not informative-one week looked much the same as its predecessor, with two blocks of time marked out, week after week, for the past several months: Every Saturday night since late January bore the notation
I wondered, as I flipped through the barren pages, why she bothered keeping a diary. Was she methodical, or was her life so empty that regular marks were themselves reassuring?
I arranged the diary as I had found it on the precise corner of the desk, and opened the first and shallower of the desk's two side drawers.
The drawer had been lined with black velvet-amateurishly done, the corners uneven, the tacks awkwardly spaced and poorly hammered. In the middle of the drawer was the book she had read from on Saturday night, with that same symbol on its cover. I reached for it, then hesitated, knowing that once I opened it, I should be lost to the desk's other contents. I closed that drawer for the moment and opened the lower one.
It held files. The first one contained Dunworthy's personal income and expenses, recorded in a 1924 ledger in the same fussy hand that had penned the notice on the meeting-room door. Rent, bills from the newsagent, the grocer, the butcher, small contributions to a savings account in the expenses columns; income in another, regular amounts for the past three months; before that, the sums varied in size and date. The ledger went back to January and bore mute witness to a life of considerable tedium.
The file behind it bore the notation: Children of Lights.
I opened it on the desk-top. It, too, had a ledger, with weekly amounts for tea, biscuits, hall rental, newspaper adverts, and the like. Every so often there would be small amounts for “supplies,” the type unspecified. The earliest noted expense was for hall rental, paid on 1 February of this year. It was followed by a man's name with the notation Builder-for the fitted cabinets in the meeting-hall, no doubt.
No payment had been recorded to Damian Adler for the painting.
The back half of the ledger was a list of names, dates, and sums. About half the names repeated, some of them every week, with amounts ranging from ?10 to ?1,000. I raised my eyebrows, because by rough tally, the Children of Lights had brought in just under ?12,000 in seven months. I copied the names of everyone who had donated more than ?100; the list came to forty-seven names.
Behind the ledger was an ordinary mailing envelope containing assorted bits of paper, including the receipt for a pair of shoes from Harrods on 11 August. It was pinned to a sales receipt for a frock from Selfridges, another sales receipt for a pair of stockings, also from Selfridges, and a straw hat from a shop just a few doors down from Selfridges on Oxford Street.
Also in the envelope were a piece of note-paper with a list of sums, although no indication of what they might be for; a scrap of lined paper with several times written on it, again with no explanation; a chemist's receipt for “The Mixture”; and a piece of different note-paper on which was written:
two first class return tickets, Victoria to Eastbourne 1 picnic basket Fortnum & Mason, to be called for
I read the lines, and wondered darkly if a child of three required her own ticket.
I copied the information concerning chemists, picnic baskets, and sums, and returned the envelope to the file
