Things to do:
Immediately
1. Write to Margaret - messenger? Sell Anglo-Egyptian, Grand Trunk of Canada - hold it in her account. Or moneybelt, carry cash.
2. Write to Molloys - Lamb.
Later
3. Find somewhere to live.
4. Bring Sarah-Jane to help - can't go investigating Parrish while looking after H.
5. Find out why.
She put the pencil down and shivered, and then realized that she could light a fire if she wanted to. The grey afternoon was still and chilly outside, but at least it was outside. She realized with a shock that it was less than twenty-four hours since she'd seen Cicely in the tea-shop. Only this time yesterday she'd had a home and a daughter and money. What was she now? A refugee?
She made up the fire and lit it, and then washed her hands and began to unpack.
Chapter Thirteen
THE TEA-SHOP
After he had taken Sally's money from her bank and deposited it prudently in his, Mr Parrish called in at his office. He looked in on Rubinstein, the tobacconist downstairs, and wished him good morning; he checked the post-box; he greeted his two clerks, and having cast a careful eye around, he sat down to a profitable morning's work.
When his gold-plated American Watch Company timepiece told him it was twelve o'clock, he took his coat and hat and set out again. He walked briskly along the Strand and up Fleet Street, and went on past St Paul's Cathedral and the Bank of England and into Cornhill. He enjoyed the walk. He swung his arms and breathed deeply, using his diaphragm, according to the method advocated by Dr Alver, of the Swedish Institute of Sciences, whose lectures on hygiene he had attended the previous spring.
In Cornhill, he consulted a newspaper and looked around for Number 14. When he found it - an office building bearing a discreet brass-plate on which were the words Arthur C. Montagu, Private Inquiry Agents - he went straight in.
There were a number of such inquiry agents in London then - detective agencies, we'd call them now. Montagu's was the biggest: a thrusting, dynamic, go-ahead firm, with twenty years' experience, a large and well-trained staff, and all bathed in the utmost discretion. If you wanted to find out who'd run away with your husband, or why your chief clerk was looking so uncommon prosperous just when you were finding the tills emptier than they should be, Arthur C. Montagu and his discreet staff would deploy their twenty years' experience, find out, and send you the bill. They advertised - discreetly - in The Times, which was where Mr Parrish had first come across their name.
He was soon sitting in a neat, modern office, bristling with voice-tubes, pneumatic message-pipes and typewriting machines. A keen young operative was taking notes.
"Wife - description? Ah! Photograph. Capital. And daughter - age? Name? Picture? No? Pity. Vanished when? Yesterday. Posing as Lockhart, of Garland and Lockhart, Photographers, Twickenham. Any reason to think she might have gone abroad? We have instant communication by telegraph with offices in Paris and Berlin, Mr Parrish. And the new telephone system will be installed any week now. No? Still in London, possibly? Possibly not. Any names of associates, friends . . . Taylor . . . Garland . . . Bertram: Hon. Charles Bertram - who's he? Partner of Garland, at present in South America she wouldn't have gone there, would she? Office in the City, financial consultancy - dear me. Enterprising lady, your wife, sir. Yes, of course, rather she didn't, quite so, unbecoming, yes; but this is the new age, what? Emancipation! Eh? Very well, Mr Parrish, we'll put some inquiries in train. You understand - can't promise - big place, London - still, Arthur C. Montagu's good, confounded good, dashed good. Arnold! Circulate this description at once, and send in Mr Billings."
Mr Billings was the agent who was going to do the actual searching. He looked suitably tenacious, with enough of a bloodhound-like droop to his expression to inspire confidence.
Mr Parrish paid a deposit against Mr Billings's expenses and went on his way, having pocketed a leaflet explaining Arthur C. Montagu's scale of charges. There was another call he had to make, in accordance with the advice he'd once heard given by Gentleman Jack Draper, the famous middle-weight: when they're on the ropes, hit 'em hard, all at once, with everything you've got.
Mr Billings was a methodical man, even more methodical than Mr Parrish, despite his lack of acquaintance with the Scientific Business Principles on which Mr Parrish's success was founded. Shortly after leaving the office, he was turning into Bengal Court, a narrow little place between four churches. Sunlight never penetrated here; everything wore an air of grim, money-making duty, covered in dust. Number Three was as dark and austere as all the rest. Mr Billings, despite his face and his calling, was a cheerful man at heart, and he looked around with some distaste. No place for a woman, he thought as he entered Number Three.
There was a porter on duty behind a sliding window, who referred him to the third floor, and when he reached that level, he found the air lighter and the aspect altogether more pleasing, for the windowsill on the landing bore a cheerful plant of some kind, and the window itself looked out at a fine church tower with an absurd little dome on top of it, and beyond that to the Mansion House.
There was a door with a sign saying S. Lockhart, Financial Consultant, on which he knocked.
"Come in," said a female voice.
As easy as that? he thought. Surely not. . .
The young lady at the desk was in her early twenties, and was not Miss Lockhart, or Mrs Parrish. She was pretty, according to the photograph he was carrying; this one wasn't. At least, not at a first glance. She had an expression full of a kind of amused confidence, which Mr Billings didn't like above half, since she looked too damn shrewd. The last time Mr Billings had seen a look like this was when his aunt caught him smoking a cigar behind the garden shed. He wouldn't be able to put much past this one.
Still, he could try.
"Miss Lockhart?" he said.
"No, I am Miss Haddow. Miss Lockhart is away. Can I help you?"
"Ah, well, it's really Miss Lockhart I wanted to see. I represent Messrs Gillray and Gillray, solicitors, and it's in connection with a will. Miss Lockhart's been left a sum of money, and--"
"May I see your card?"
Brisk, too. He found a card in his waistcoat pocket and handed it over, and was slightly dismayed to see her reach for a Kelly's Directory from the shelf behind her. If she looked up the address on the card she'd find it listed as an accommodation address, and only a step or two's more research would disclose that the tenants were Arthur C. Montagu, private inquiry agents. Better play it straight, he thought; she's too quick to fool, this one.
But before he could say anything, there was a knock on the door; and that was the point at which Sally's luck ran out.
Miss Haddow opened the door and said, "Would you mind waiting just a moment? I'm busy with a visitor--"
"Message from Miss Lockhart, miss," said a military voice.
Mr Billings could see through the open door: the visitor was a commissionaire. An idea struck him.
"Just a moment, miss," he said, and stepped forward. They were all three clustered around the door now, but the other two were momentarily nonplussed, and a moment was all he needed. "There's been a number of cases lately of men in commissionaires' uniforms imposing on members of the public. Have you got your ticket-book?" he demanded of the man.
The commissionaire, a stout, grey-haired man with several medal ribbons on his breast, was about to reply, but Miss Haddow cut in sharply:
"Employers are entitled to inspect ticket-books. I'm not aware that anyone else is."
"That's all right, miss," said the commissionaire. "I'll show my ticket-book to anyone."
He produced a folded booklet. Mr Billings took it from him, looked at it swiftly, and then said, "Good afternoon, miss." He thrust the ticket-book back at the commissionaire and set off downstairs.
Margaret Haddow watched him go, perplexity turning into annoyance. She felt she'd been outmanoeuvred, though she couldn't see how, and she t
ook the letter from the commissionaire, tipped him and sat down to read it.
"Cab! Cab!"
Mr Billings was in luck. An empty hansom happened to be passing; the driver heard him and turned abruptly, causing a crossing-sweeper to skip on to the kerb for dear life, and release a jet of language, some of which was new to Mr Billings.
"Office of the Corps of Commissionaires, in the Strand," called Mr Billings, leaping in. "I don't mind how fast you go."
The driver was a sporting kind of a man; he'd winged one or two crossing-sweepers before, and he was always willing to bag another. He shook the reins, flicked his whip, and urged the hansom out into a narrow gap between a brougham and a builder's wagon, raising a cry of alarm from the first and a volley of curses from the other. Then they were clattering and swaying and bouncing like a Roman chariot down Lombard Street. Mr Billings clung to his hat approvingly, blessing the strict rules of the Corps of Commissionaires.
The Corps was formed of retired soldiers and sailors, and you could hire a Commissionaire to go on an errand, or take a message, or carry a parcel, or deliver circulars, or take money or check tickets at a door, or watch over an empty building at night - do more or less anything, in fact; and there was a regular tariff for all these jobs, which was printed in the ticket-book Mr Billings had demanded.
Also printed in each Commissionaire's ticket-book was his personal number, which in the case of imitation or fake Commissionaires, they had not got. Mr Billings had noted the number of this genuine example of the species. He was hoping, now, that he'd beat Miss Haddow to the punch.
The cab drew up with a fine flourish of the whip, a tug on the brake, a skid of the wheels; and Mr Billings leapt out, threw a coin to the driver, calling out "Wait there!", and raced into the building.
There was a sergeant on duty at the desk, waxed and polished and whiskered. Mr Billings wasted no time.
"Commissionaire number 318," he said. "A corporal. Can you find out where he is now?"
"Why, sir?"
"Urgent. Police business. We need him as a witness in a murder case - oh, beg pardon: my card. Solicitors. Apparently your number 318 can vouch for our client's alibi - it might make the difference between getting him off and seeing an innocent man hanged. Where is he, quick?"
The sergeant was as willing to be impressed by the gallows as anyone. He turned to a large appointments book and leafed through it, licking a finger to help turn the pages.
"318 - Corporal Lewis," he said. "Message to be taken to an address in Bengal Court, in the City. On behalf of a Miss Lockhart, Number Five, Wellcome Passage, Bloomsbury. He set off at--"
"I'll find him," said Mr Billings, and dashed out again, leaving the sergeant still poised with his finger over the appointments book.
Margaret Haddow crumpled Sally's letter, and swore. It was a word she'd heard a cabman use once, and she judged it appropriate now.
She had been outmanoeuvred. That bowler-hatted bloodhound would have discovered Sally's address by now - or he would very soon, and what then? The only thing to do was go there herself at once. And she had an appointment in twenty minutes: a client who was coming to see her, and he'd been put off once already. They couldn't really afford to lose him, but equally she couldn't let Sally down.
She looked through into the other office, where Cicely Corrigan was filing some letters.
"I've got to go out," she said. "Emergency. Now listen - Mr Patten's coming in about twenty minutes. You'll have to give our profound apologies and make another appointment for him. I'm sorry to let you in for--"
"That's him now, isn't it?" said Cicely.
They listened. There were voices outside. Margaret closed her eyes in exasperation and thought swiftly.
"You'll have to go yourself then," she said. "It's very important. Get your coat and hat and take a cab to Wellcome Passage in Bloomsbury - got that? Go to Number Five. Keep the cab waiting. Miss Lockhart's there. Tell her to go to the. . . Oh, to the British Museum, that's not far, and meet me in the Assyrian Room. She mustn't stay at that address - Wellcome Passage. I'll be along as soon as I can. Oh, money for the cab. Here you are. Use it to come back here when you've taken her to the museum. Quick now - it's desperately important."
Bewildered but willing, Cicely struggled into the shabby coat and last year's hat and took the money, while Margaret hastened to open the door.
As Cicely hurried down the stairs Margaret turned to her visitor, and was slightly disconcerted to find that there was someone else there besides Mr Patten. That someone else was the result of Mr Parrish's remembering Gentleman Jack Draper's advice; but Margaret wouldn't know that for a few minutes yet.
Mr Parrish was transacting some business on behalf of a Missionary Society when Mr Billings rushed into the outer office and spoke to his clerk.
"I hesitate to interrupt Mr Parrish in the execution of his duty," said the clerk, a fish-faced young man of high moral standards. "He has with him at the moment the national secretary of the United Missions to South India and Ceylon. I don't think--"
"Take him this, son," said Mr Billings, scribbling the words I have Miss Lockhart's address - Ez. Billings on an Arthur C. Montagu card. "Go on. Don't stand there gaping."
The clerk gulped and knocked at the inner door. Mr Parrish didn't like being interrupted at the best of times, but he could only try. . .
His employer took the card, eyed it narrowly, and stood up at once.
"Is he outside?" he said.
"Yes, Mr Parrish."
"Tell him to wait. You'll have to excuse me, Mr Pryor; urgent business. We'll discuss the furnishing of your Mission another day. But in the mean time, we'll have those bibles and sola topis shipped out to Madras on the very next steamer. Good day, sir - see Mr Pryor out, Blake, come along."
The missionary, who had been looking forward to thinking about mosquito nets and punkahs, found himself hustled out and given his hat, and a moment later Mr Parrish was donning his own.
"Where?" was his only word to Mr Billings.
"Bloomsbury. I got a cab waiting."
"Good man."
A minute later they were bowling up Drury Lane. The cab-driver was enjoying his afternoon.
Cicely Corrigan ran to the cab-rank in King William Street, more than a little nervous. She'd never taken a cab on her own before, though she'd been in one with her father once; how much should she tip the driver? She'd heard they were terribly abusive if you didn't give them enough. . .
She wished she had Miss Lockhart's ease or Miss Haddow's assurance; they were both so grown up. Was it going to university that did that for you?
Well, she'd have to do her best without it. She ran to the cab at the head of the rank and said, "Bloomsbury, please. Number Five, Wellcome Passage."
"Right you are, miss," said the cabbie as she got in, and flicked the reins. They moved away.
That was easy enough. And, after all, she could always ask Miss Lockhart about a tip.
But he didn't seem to be going very fast. Of course, the traffic was heavy; they were stuck behind a slow-moving omnibus, which itself was held up by - she craned sideways to look - a hearse, of all things; and as they reached Ludgate Circus, they had to stop altogether while a policeman allowed traffic through from Farringdon Road on the right.
It seemed to take ten minutes, but finally they were moving forward again. Gradually the traffic began to move more freely, and soon the hansom was bowling along Fleet Street. Right into Chancery Lane, the tall, distinguished, lawyer-like buildings austere in brick on right and left; out into Holborn, past the ancient gabled buildings leaning four stories and more over the street; right again into Southampton Row, and then they were in Bloomsbury. Cicely didn't know this area, though her father had once taken her and her brother to the British Museum.
The driver slid back a panel behind her head, making her jump.
"Where was it, miss?"
"Oh! Wellcome Passage. I don't know where that is. . ."
"Have to
ask."
He jingled the harness, and the horse slowed to a walk, and then the cab moved in to the pavement. A tall policeman, as grand as a monument, was strolling along.
"Wellcome Passage?" said the cabbie. "Know where that is?"
"That's odd," said the constable. "Second cabbie in five minutes to ask me that, you are. Over there, mate - down the street, first on the right. Can't get the cab in there, though."
"Ta," said the cabbie, flicking the reins, and they moved off in the direction he'd indicated.
Cicely sat up: someone else was looking for Wellcome Passage. This was what Miss Haddow was worried about.
The cab turned down the street, came to the barred entrance to Wellcome Passage, and stopped. Another cab was waiting there already.
Cicely got out and came round to the driver. Something was wrong. She didn't know what it was, but she felt suddenly anxious.
"Can you wait here for a few minutes?" she said. "I'll be coming out with another lady and we'll want to go to the British Museum."
"I'll need paying first," said the driver.
"Oh - sorry - how much?"
"One and sixpence, luv."
Cicely fumbled at her purse, found the coins and handed them up, and then blushed as the driver looked at them and raised his eyebrows. What should she give him? What would Miss Lockhart do?
"If you're still here when I come back," she said boldly, "you'll get a tip."
The man nodded. Cicely ran past the barrier as the other cabbie eyed the competition with interest: was there going to be a race?
Cicely found Number Five and knocked at the door. It was opened by a cynical-looking maidservant with dusty hair.
"Is there a Miss Lockhart here?"
"Lockhart? Oh - you mean Jones. Mrs Jones. There's two more waiting for her upstairs. D'you want to join 'em?"
"Two more?"
"Two gentlemen. Just arrived. This is like Piccadilly Circus this afternoon. D'you want to go up or not?"
"Isn't she there?"
"She's gone out, with the baby. Kiddie. Back soon, I shouldn't wonder. You coming in or not? It's blooming cold with the door open."
This was a very unusual and familiar kind of servant, clearly, and it wasn't the sort of house she pictured Miss Lockhart in at all.