was not on her own even before she saw Marjorie sitting on the other side of the room, her back to the door.
‘Marjorie, love—thank God you’re safe. What on earth’s happened?’ The girl must be in shock, Hilda thought, because she didn’t move or respond in any way, even when she called her name again. ‘It’s all right, love— whatever’s gone on, you’re not on your own. We’ll look after you.’ As Hilda stepped closer and reached out her hand, she noticed the smell but the significance of it didn’t register until it was too late; by now, she was at an angle to see Marjorie’s reflection in the full-length mirror which stood just a few feet away from her. She stared in revulsion and terror at the blood and bruising around her mouth, at the needle still hanging on a thread from her lips, at her own image standing over the dead girl, adding to Marjorie’s degradation by the very act of witnessing it. Understanding now why there had been no response, Hilda opened her mouth and screamed for them both.
Detective Inspector Archie Penrose sat at his desk in New Scotland Yard, wondering how he could make a pact with the devil to add a few more hours to each day. He had been at work since just after seven and was only halfway through the reports that had come in overnight. Among them was Fallowfield’s account of the thefts and anonymous letters at the Cowdray Club; it was not the sort of thing which Penrose would normally investigate, but the chief constable was putting pressure on him to give some time to it, and the sooner it was cleared up, the better.
He picked up the telephone to make an appointment but, before he had a chance to speak to the operator, Fallowfield stuck his head round the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Sir, but we’ve got to go. Thompson’s just called up from the desk—a man’s reported two bodies, and I recognised the address. It’s your cousins’ place—and one of the bodies is a young woman.’
For a second, Penrose was numb, trying to take in the implications of what he had heard. Then he reached for the telephone again and barked Lettice’s number into the receiver. ‘Come on, pick it up,’ he muttered as it rang and rang, but there was no answer, and the result was the same when he tried Ronnie’s flat. ‘What else did Thompson say?’ he asked as they ran out to the car. ‘Do we have a description of the dead woman?’ Fallowfield hesitated, and Penrose knew that there was something he was reluctant to share. ‘Well?’
‘We don’t have a description of the woman, Sir—only what’s been done to her.’
‘And? Oh for God’s sake, Bill, just tell me.’
‘Someone’s stitched her mouth up.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Penrose paused before getting into the car, and tried to rid himself of the images crowding his mind. ‘Please God, no,’ he said, more quietly this time.
‘Come on, Sir—we don’t know anything for sure yet,’ Fallowfield said calmly, taking the keys from Penrose’s hand and going round to the driver’s side. ‘She was found in the workroom. The other body’s outside in the yard— looks like he fell down the stairs on his way out.’
‘And who reported it?’
‘Chap called Gaunt. Ellis Gaunt, I think.’
The name meant nothing to Penrose, but then very little else did either. The short journey from the Embankment to St Martin’s Lane was a blur to him, and he was out of the car even before Fallowfield had brought it to a standstill in front of number 66. Just inside the gates, he saw Lettice and Ronnie comforting an older woman whom he recognised as their head cutter; another man—presumably the Gaunt who’d made the call—stood awkwardly to the side, at a discreet distance from the group of women, as if reluctant to intrude on their sorrow. All of them looked up, startled, as Penrose ran over to them. ‘Thank God,’ he said, scarcely caring that it was not the most professional of responses. ‘I thought for a moment that one of you …’
‘No, Archie—we’re fine.’ Lettice smiled weakly, but she and Ronnie both looked ten years older than when he had last seen them, and Ronnie in particular seemed to be struggling to keep her emotions under control—anger, he noticed, rather than tears, but that was what he would have expected; ever since they were children, Ronnie’s response to grief or injustice had always been to rage against it rather than admit her vulnerability. The other lady—why couldn’t he remember her name?—was making a valiant effort to pull herself together, but in vain: she stared down at the handkerchief in her hands, winding one of the corners repeatedly round her finger and shaking her head; she seemed grateful when Lettice saved her from having to go over what had happened straight away. ‘No, it’s Marjorie who’s been killed—Marjorie Baker, one of our girls. Hilda found her father over by the steps when she came in to work this morning. She went up to telephone for help, and that’s when she found Marjorie’s body.’
Penrose glanced over to the foot of the iron staircase. ‘There’s another way we can get up to the workroom, isn’t there?’ he asked.
‘Yes, through the clients’ entrance at the front and up the stairs there.’ Lettice opened her bag and took out a set of keys. ‘Here, you’ll need these.’
Penrose walked back to the street, where Fallowfield was getting some gloves and other equipment out of the car, and handed him the keys. ‘Have a quick look round inside, Bill—I want to get everyone out of the yard. They’ve had a shock and they shouldn’t be out here in these temperatures, but check everywhere first. We don’t want any more surprises.’
He returned to the group and spoke gently to the woman who had found the body. ‘I’m so very sorry for what you’ve been through. My sergeant’s just checking the premises and sealing off the workroom. He won’t be long, and then I’ll need to ask you a few questions. We can do it in one of the rooms here, or, if you’d rather not go back into the building straight away, I’m sure I can find us somewhere nearby to talk.’
‘No, no—it’s fine,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to make any more work for you.’
‘We’ll go into the flat upstairs in a minute,’ Lettice said, squeezing Hilda’s shoulder. ‘It’s chock-a-block with materials, but it’s quiet and well away from everything, and at least we can have some tea to warm us up.’
Penrose was grateful for his cousin’s tact. The comings and goings of photographers, scene-of-crime officers and mortuary vans were not comfortable things to witness for anyone who didn’t work with them, and he needed Hilda to concentrate without any upsetting distractions. ‘You must be Mr Gaunt?’ he said, holding his hand out to the man by the gates. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Penrose. I gather you reported the murder?’
‘That’s right,’ Gaunt said. ‘I was on my way to work, when I saw Mrs Reader coming out from the yard. She was obviously upset about something, so I stopped to find out what was wrong. She asked me to wait down here with the man’s body while she went to call the police, just to make sure that nobody else came into the yard. Then I heard her screaming, so I went straight up—I thought she was in trouble.’ He paused, looking at Hilda Reader. ‘When I saw what had happened, I was so sorry that I’d let her go up and make the call, but it seemed the best thing at the time—she knew where the telephone was and everything. But I wish I could have saved her from seeing that. It’s terrible up there—even more so for anyone who knew the girl.’
‘You weren’t to know,’ Penrose said, impressed by the young man’s decency. ‘What did you do when you got upstairs?’
‘I asked Mrs Reader where the telephone was, and told her to wait in the corridor. Then I called you.’
‘And you came down together as soon as you’d finished.’
‘No, Archie—they did a little light dusting and finished the spring collection. Of course they came straight down—they’re hardly going to stay up there with a human pin cushion, are they?’ Ronnie’s frustration had finally got the better of her, but there were tears in her eyes as she glared at him.
Gaunt looked uncomfortable, but Penrose nodded encouragingly at him to continue. ‘More or less straight down, Sir. Mrs Reader wanted me to telephone her employers as well. So I went back to do that, and then we came down here to wait.’
‘We came straight away,’ Lettice explained. ‘We just couldn’t believe it. I suppose we’d been here about five or ten minutes before you arrived.’
‘And neither of you have left the courtyard?’
‘No, of course not. We knew we mustn’t touch anything.’
‘There is one thing, though.’ Hilda Reader spoke so faintly that Penrose could hardly hear what she was saying. ‘Upstairs I … it was the smell, you see. I couldn’t stop myself. The shock of finding her there like that, seeing what he’d done to her. I’m afraid I … I was sick. I couldn’t help it,’ she said again. ‘I’m sorry—I hope I haven’t ruined anything.’
‘Oh, Hilda,’ Lettice said, wrapping her arms round her. ‘How bloody awful for you. There’s no need to be sorry.’
‘Lettice is right, Mrs Reader,’ Penrose said. ‘There’s absolutely no need to apologise—it’s a perfectly natural reaction.’
