to assault her.
Daisy was studying the posters when a male voice said. ‘Think of going in, miss? It’s a good show.’
Daisy swung round. ‘Why, it’s Billy Gardon!’ she exclaimed.
Billy goggled at the sedate little figure in front of him. ‘Daisy, is that you?’
‘It’s me all right.’
When Billy, a comedian, had last seen Daisy, she had brassy blonde hair and thick make-up, not to mention garish clothes.
‘What happened to you?’
Daisy grinned. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘Tell you what,’ said Billy. ‘I got this little flat at the top of the theatre. I’m not on till this evening. Let’s you and me go up there and have a glass of hot gin.’
Daisy hesitated only a moment. Telling herself that she’d never had any trouble from Billy before, she let him lead her round the side, through the stage door and up through the inner recesses of the theatre.
She could hear someone on stage singing ‘When Father Papered the Parlour’ and the audience joining in the chorus.
‘Here we are,’ said Billy, panting a little as he came to a halt before a door at the top. He swung it open and ushered Daisy in.
She found herself in a frowsty little room. There was a bed against one wall with the blankets spilling over onto the floor. A table against the window was covered with the remains of breakfast. It was flanked by two kitchen chairs and a dead aspidistra in a brass bowl on the window-ledge. The walls were covered in music-hall posters.
Billy cleared the table by lifting up the four corners of the cloth, bundling everything up and putting it in a corner. There was a coal fire spilling ash onto the grate. ‘Soon get a fire going.’ Billy raked out the ashes, giving Daisy a view of his large plaid-covered backside. Billy was a thickset middle-aged man with a large walrus moustache. His hair was dyed black and his face was red from too much drinking.
When the fire was lit, he thrust a kettle full of water on it, and then opened a cupboard and brought out a bottle of gin and two glasses.
‘We’ll have some hot water for the gin in a trice,’ said Billy. ‘Now, let me look at you. What you been and gone and done to yourself?’
He was a good listener. Daisy would not confess to herself that she still found Rose’s company rather intimidating. The class lines were strictly drawn. To want to move out of your station was flying in the face of Providence. Everyone knew that God put you in your appointed station.
So it was a relief to be back with what she naively thought of as ‘her own kind’. Mellowed by hot gin – several glasses of it – she told Billy everything, only forgetting to say that Rose’s parents had gone abroad.
‘So this earl’s daughter’s living in this hostel! Where did you say it was?’
‘It’s at Number Twenty-two Bryant Court in Bloomsbury. Fact is, I’m amazed she can stand it after all she’s been used to.’
‘Here, have another gin.’
‘Shouldn’t really. Still, it’s a cold day.’
‘Run out o’ gin. Be back in a mo’.’
Billy raced down the stairs and round to the pub with the empty bottle, which he got filled with gin. Then he went into the chemist’s next door to it and bought a bottle of laudanum. His brain was racing. Here was his passport to freedom. No more shows, day in and day out. He was getting on in life.
That evening, Rose was feeling tired. She was also hungry, but there was no sign of Daisy and she wondered whether she should start eating without her.
At nine o’ clock, there was a knock on her door. Rose opened it. Miss Harringey stood there. ‘There is a person downstairs to see you.’
Rose arched her eyebrows. ‘I do not see persons, Miss Harringey. What does he want?’
‘I do not approve of gentlemen callers. Would you be so good as to descend and send him on his way.’
Rose followed her down the stairs. ‘He is in my sanctum,’ said Miss Harringey, throwing open the door.
Rose stared at Billy, from his dyed greased hair down over his plaid suit with the brown velvet lapels to his brown boots, and then her eyes travelled back up again to his face.
‘Yes?’
‘I am Mr Billy Gardon. You may have heard of me.’
‘No. State your business.’
‘It’s a delicate matter,’ said Billy, looking at Miss Harringey. ‘It’s about Daisy.’
‘Step outside with me,’ said Rose. ‘Thank you, Miss Harringey.’
She led Billy out into a small hall and closed the door behind her on Miss Harringey’s curious face.
Miss Harringey opened the door a crack. She heard Billy saying, ‘Miss Levine’s been taken ill. She’s at the theatre. I got a flat there, up top. She’s asking for you.’
‘I will get my coat and come with you directly,’ said Rose.
Captain Harry Cathcart was enjoying his breakfast on Sunday morning when his manservant, Becket, announced, ‘Mr Matthew Jarvis to see you on urgent business.’
‘Mr Jarvis?’
‘The Earl of Hadshire’s secretary.’
Harry felt a sudden stab of unease. ‘Show him in.’
Matthew strode into the room, his normally pleasant face white with strain. ‘I came to you directly. I normally don’t work on Sundays, particularly with his lordship being away . . .’
‘Sit down, Mr Jarvis. Coffee?’
‘No, thank you. I decided to work this morning because I planned to visit my mother in the country tomorrow. I was going through Saturday’s post and found this. It had been delivered by hand.
Harry took the cheap envelope and extracted a piece of lined paper. He read: ‘If you want to see your daughter again, bring five thousand guineas to Jack Straw’s Castle in Hampstead on Monday at two in the afternoon. Don’t tell no one or she’s dead.’
‘Jack Straw’s Castle – that’s that pub on Hampstead Heath, isn’t it?’ asked Harry.
‘Yes. Oh, what are we to do?’ wailed Matthew. ‘If the police are informed, it will all come out that Lady Rose was working for a living and she will be socially damned for the rest of her life!’
‘Leave it with me,’ said Harry. ‘Becket, get my hat and coat and come with me.’
‘So,’ said Harry, when he and Becket were confronting Miss Harringey half an hour later, ‘you will understand that as Miss Rose’s brother, I am anxious to find her. I have but recently returned from Australia.’
‘Some vulgar man called on her. Miss Summer took him into the hall and closed the door on me. As I am a lady, I do not listen at doors.’
‘It must be very hard for you, taking care of these young ladies who lodge here,’ said Harry.
‘I do my best, sir.’
Harry slowly pulled out a rouleau of guineas and extracted five. He then let the gold coins slide slowly from hand to hand. ‘I am prepared to pay for information. Perhaps one of the other ladies . . .?’
Staring at the gold, Miss Harringey said, ‘I did manage to hear a few words.’
‘Which were?’
‘I wasn’t really listening, but they had left my door open a crack. He said he was Billy Gardon. He said Daisy had been taken ill at the theatre. He said he had a flat at the top of the theatre.’
What a lot of information for someone who wasn’t really listening, thought Harry cynically. He placed the five guineas on the edge of a lace-covered bamboo table. It must be Butler’s Music Hall. Daisy used to work there.
Rose and Daisy were lying side by side on the narrow bed, bound and gagged. Tears of weakness spilled down Rose’s cheeks. Her thoughts had only been for Daisy when she had entered the room ahead of Billy and had seen the still figure of Daisy lying on the bed. As she bent over her, Billy had charged and knocked her flat on the
