Murder in Belgravia Read online

  Beech noted that looks were exchanged between the assembled staff.

  “Well?” he asked impatiently.

  “My skivvy,” the cook said in a quiet voice. “She didn’t appear this morning to light the oven and her bed’s not been slept in.”

  “I see,” Beech replied, nodding to them all grimly. “Does she have a family home that she may have returned to?”

  “No, sir. Lady Harriet took her in, a year ago, from Dr Barnardo’s Homes. She’s an orphan. She’s got no one.” The cook became more distressed. “I can’t believe that Polly has anything to do with this terrible business! She’s a good girl. A hard worker and she worshipped Lady Harriet.”

  “Hm. Well, good girl or not, we need to find her and ask her some questions. I will deal with this later.”

  Upstairs, Beech could hear faint moaning coming from the library, which signaled that, for the moment, Lady Harriet was clinging on to life. He sent a small prayer of thanks heavenward that Caroline had been able to drop everything and assist him.

  The events of today had strengthened his resolve to pursue his plan with his superiors. He needed the assistance of women if he were to successfully deal with crime in London. Caroline was one woman he would want on his team and the other was someone he was reluctant to ask, because of their personal history. But he knew that she would be perfect for the job.

  The clanging bell of the ambulance could be heard in the distance and it brought him back to the matter in hand. He knocked softly on the library door.

  “Caro, the ambulance is about to arrive; prepare your patient.”

  “Nearly done!” came the muffled reply. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to let this woman die.”

  Yes, thought Beech, Caroline would be an essential part of the team.

  CHAPTER 2

  By the time Beech had supervised the removal of Lady Harriet and Caroline to the Women’s Hospital, it was almost two in the afternoon. Beech instructed the butler that the bedroom in which the crime took place was to be kept locked and undisturbed until he returned. Then he realized that he was hungry. He decided to kill two birds with one stone by tracking down the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police in his club and begging some lunch from him.

  Another taxi was hailed and Beech rehearsed in his mind the conversation he hoped he would have with Sir Edward Henry. He admired the man, who had transformed the Metropolitan Police with the latest scientific developments by introducing police dogs, fingerprinting, typewriters, and the telegraph to Scotland Yard. And he knew that the man was compassionate—he had even spoken in the defense of a London cab driver who had shot him three years earlier and taken some interest in the rehabilitation of the man—but, somehow, like all those men in senior positions in the services and government, he had a blind spot about the employment of women.

  Even when war was declared, Sir Edward had declared publicly that only men were suitable to be police officers, and he had been mightily disgruntled when the suffragette organizations had ignored him and volunteered to set up patrols. Beech knew that what had annoyed Sir Edward the most was the fact that many of the suffragettes were “well connected” and had used their influence in government circles to override his opinion. Sir Edward Henry, despite his knighthood—given for meritorious work in the administration of police forces throughout the Empire—was from middle-class origins. His father had been an Irish doctor, and he was sensitive that, in some circles, he was regarded with disdain as someone who had risen to his position from his humble start as a clerk for Lloyd’s of London.

  Beech cursed the strictures of the class system, which, so often, kept him from doing his job effectively. He actually found that being the son of a baronet was more of a hindrance than anything else. Still, he felt that, despite this, his relationship with Sir Edward was good and, as the taxi arrived at Pall Mall, he prayed that it would stand him in good stead in the forthcoming discussion.

  Beech savored the cool marble interior of the foyer of the Athenaeum Club and he asked the nearest steward if Sir Edward was within.

  “Sir Edward is about to start a late lunch, alone, sir”

  “Then could you possibly give Sir Edward my apologies for disturbing him and request whether Chief Inspector Beech might join him for lunch?”

  The steward inclined his head and set off up the long staircase to the dining room. Beech hoped that his imposition would not be viewed with annoyance—rather he was rewarded by the steward returning and indicating permission.

  Sir Edward, fortunately, seemed in good spirits. When Beech apologized for the intrusion, explaining that he needed to discuss a matter of some delicacy but that he was also starving, Sir Edward grinned and motioned him to sit.

  “Food first, Beech. Then we can adjourn to the library for this ‘matter of delicacy.’ ”

  Lunch passed pleasantly, with much discussion about the merits of police dogs, a subject close to the Commissioner’s heart, while Beech devoured steak pie and claret.

  Once in the library, ensconced in comfortable armchairs, Beech nervously began his explanation of the day’s events while Sir Edward alternated between looking grave and tutting.

  Having finished outlining the crime involving Lady Harriet and the problems it had presented, Beech cleared his throat, lowered his voice, and hoped for the best.

  “I know, Sir Edward, your views on women police officers …” he began.

  “Not just my views, Beech,” Sir Edward said gruffly, “but those of successive Home Secretaries. I have no doubt that the right sort of woman might make an excellent police officer but the politically motivated suffragettes have done more harm than good in that direction. No one on the police force or in the Home Office wants to work with them. You can’t have a decade of women knocking the hats off policemen and worse, and then expect male officers to welcome them into the fold, as it were.”

  “I understand that, sir. I really do. But you know, as well as I do, that London is now teeming with women, working in all sorts of jobs previously held by men. The face of the capital’s crime is changing and we are poorly equipped to deal with female crime.”

  Sir Edward shook his head. “I agree with you but it won’t alter the attitude of the police force and the Home Office.”

  Beech nodded but persisted. “What if I were to suggest an unofficial solution … an experiment, if you like … something that would operate outside of Scotland Yard and not affect the day-to-day running of the police force?”

  “Go on,” Sir Edward replied, seemingly amenable.

  Beech then outlined his proposal. To create a small team of two women—a detective and a doctor—and two men—one to safeguard the women and another to do complementary detective work. “I would find a private office for them and pass them cases which require their special talents.”

  “Mm.” Sir Edward appeared to consider the possibility. “What sort of women?” he enquired.

  “Women of good education and from good families. I know the two women I have in mind … I know their people. While they are independent women, they are not suffragettes—possibly a bit bluestocking but nothing radical.”

  Sir Edward smiled. “And the men for your proposed team?”

  Beech began to feel confident. Sir Edward was asking all the right questions. “I would like to have a young policeman called Billy Rigsby. He’s over six feet, strong and lively. He was wounded at Mons last year and invalided out with a head injury and a shattered left hand. He is fit and well now, but frustrated by the injury to his hand. I think he would welcome being in a special unit. The other is one of the retired detectives that have been brought back into service, Arthur Tollman. He used to work for Special Branch, so he is skilled in intelligence gathering, and he is a widower with three daughters, so is used to the company of women.”

  “We would not be able to put any women on the payroll,” warned Sir Edward.

  It was Beech’s turn to smile. “Neither of the women in question have any need of mon
ey, and I think—well, I hope—that they would welcome a chance to assist us.”

  Sir Edward looked hard at Beech. “If I were to sanction such an enterprise, it would be on the understanding that this is a private arrangement between you and I. You would be able to divert some funds to the ‘team’ only on the understanding that the women are never mentioned and that their names never appear on any paperwork. Am I clear on that point?”

  Beech’s face broke into a wide grin. “Absolutely, Sir Edward. You have my word that discretion will be paramount.”

  “And,” continued Sir Edward, “this special team must not take you away from your essential duties at Scotland Yard.”

  “Absolutely not. Again, you have my word.”

  “Then we shall shake hands on our agreement on the understanding that you will keep me informed, privately, of all progress.”

  Beech stood and extended his hand, which Sir Edward grasped and shook.

  “Now,” said the Commissioner, with a tone of finality, “you can go about your business of handling this Lady Harriet tragedy and bringing it to a speedy conclusion.”

  “Of course, Sir Edward. And thank you for your support.”

  “Let’s hope I don’t regret it, Beech,” was the Commissioner’s parting shot.

  Out in the fresh spring breeze, Beech felt heady with success. He decided to go to the Women’s Hospital first and check on the progress of Lady Harriet. He hoped that Caroline had been able to summon her skills to keep the lady alive; it would be horrible for her to have so tragic an end. Also were she to have pulled through then she could be questioned in due course. This time he decided to take an omnibus and sprinted across the road, dodging horses and mechanized transport as fast as his injured leg would allow him. Leaping on to the platform of a passing omnibus finally caused a piercing pain in his thigh and he was grateful to find a seat and rest.

  The bus was filled with women but both the conductor and driver were older men. Thank God, he reflected, that he had managed to persuade the Commissioner to support his plan! He looked around and noted that the passengers were all “working” women, dressed smartly for office and shop work—the Civil Service in Whitehall had been forced to take on large numbers of women once war started—even the bootmakers in Pall Mall were employing women, much to the distaste of their elderly gentlemen customers. Yes, times had changed with a vengeance and the police force had a long way to go to catch up.

  He listened to the idle chatter of his fellow travelers as the bus made its way around Trafalgar Square and along the Strand. He became aware of several women casting disapproving glances at him and he began to feel uncomfortable. He knew that a man of his age, not in uniform, was liable to attract criticism and he cursed his decision to forgo taking a taxi. He decided that when he left the bus he would noticeably limp, so that these women would understand that he was war-wounded and not war-shirking—and then he felt embarrassed that he was being tyrannized into caring about their opinions. So, it was a grateful Beech who limped off the omnibus at the Euston Road and was rewarded by several smiles and waves from the women who had now revised their view of him.

  In fact, as he walked the remaining few yards to the Women’s Hospital, he found that he was, actually, unable to walk without limping, and the pain in his thigh had developed into a dull ache that would not lessen. The limp became so pronounced that Caroline Allardyce expressed her concern when she saw him.

  “Peter, I want to have a look at that leg right now!” she said firmly when she realized he was limping beside her to her office.

  “Don’t be silly, Caro,” he said, feeling himself getting flustered.

  She turned to him with an amused look on her face. “Don’t tell me you are embarrassed about taking off your trousers in front of me!”

  “Well … yes … I am, actually. And I’d rather not have this conversation in the corridor.” He had noted the female orderly who had sniggered as she passed by.

  Caroline opened the door. “Inside please, Mr Beech, and we’ll have no more nonsense about being examined by a woman doctor.”

  Beech looked at her determined face and felt it was useless to protest. He realized that he was so easily intimidated by women and found it difficult, as a police officer, to assert his authority, when necessary. He was sure that many men in the police force felt the same and, to Beech, that was another reason for setting up his “special team.” He reluctantly went behind the screen and stripped off his trousers, noting that the scar on his thigh was a livid red.

  He gingerly laid on the examination couch and winced as Caroline’s fingers probed his scar.

  “I think you have an infection, Peter. I can see a small amount of oozing from the top of the scar. I shall paint it with iodine and hope that it settles everything down. You’ve been overdoing it again, haven’t you?”

  Beech sighed. “I suppose I have. But it’s hard to treat oneself like an invalid when there is so much to be done.”

  “Perhaps you should delegate more,” Caroline answered, as she painted his thigh bright orange.

  “Funny you should say that …” he began to explain to Caroline his plan to set up a team to investigate crimes involving women.

  She looked up at him with interest as he finished explaining.

  “Two women, you said?”

  Beech nodded.

  “So, obviously, you will be asking Victoria?” There was something in her voice that made Beech raise his eyebrows.

  “You don’t think that would be a good idea?”

  “For you, personally—no,” Caroline answered firmly. “For this team you want to put together, you have no option. No one has a deductive brain quite like Victoria. She would be perfect for the job.”

  Beech felt embarrassed. “Really, Caro … Victoria rejected my marriage proposal several years ago. I think I can safely say that we have all put that behind us.”

  Caroline snorted. “Don’t be silly, Peter! You have carried a torch for Victoria ever since you reached the age of sixteen and, now that she is a widow, I wonder if you don’t fancy your chances with her again.”

  Beech flushed. “You’re the one being silly! Can I get dressed now?”

  Caroline shook her head. “Not unless you want your expensive trousers stained with iodine. Anyway, I think I should bandage your thigh to keep the scar clean and give it some support.”

  “If you must.” Beech was beginning to feel awkward and trapped, lying on a couch in his underwear with Caroline discussing his private life.

  “Don’t sulk. I’ll be as quick as I can,” and she started to deftly wind a bandage around his thigh.

  Beech cleared his throat. “Ahem … I was wondering how Lady Harriet is?”

  Caroline sighed. “Gravely ill. I had to remove her womb and the fetus it was carrying.”

  “Oh God.” Beech closed his eyes in despair.

  Caroline continued. “How in God’s name that woman managed to dress herself and walk down the stairs to where we found her, I don’t know. By the time I came to perform surgery there was a very large bruise forming on her abdomen—in the perfect shape of a boot.”

  “You mean …?”

  “Yes. Her husband had stamped on her—hard—probably with the deliberate intent of killing her unborn child.”

  Beech felt nauseous. “How old was the unborn child?”

  “A couple of months—barely the size of my hand. And Peter,” she continued, “the pain would have been so intense that she would not have been able to get herself upright to stab her husband in the chest. I’m convinced of that. Someone else must have stabbed him. And probably dressed her and helped her downstairs. She was in agony. Her injuries were severe. Not only to her womb but to her bladder and bowel as well. I managed to repair those but we are in the hands of the nursing staff now. She may succumb to infection, so you had better interview her as soon as she is able to respond.”

  “She won’t talk to me. I’ve tried.” Beech sat up and Caroline helpe
d him into his trousers. “She will only talk to a woman. She said, ‘one who is of her own class and preferably married.’ So I must go now and fetch Victoria as quickly as possible. In the meantime, if we don’t get back in time, Caroline, you must talk to her. Get as much out of her as you can.”

  “I’ll try.” Caroline flashed him a smile. “Give Victoria my love—and please stay off that leg as much as you can. Do you want some pain relief ?”

  Beech shook his head. “No, thank you. That way lies madness, as evidenced by Lady Harriet’s husband. I’ve seen too many war wounded become addicted to opiates.”

  “Well, good luck, Peter, and hurry back. I’m anxious to be part of this team of yours!”

  Beech smiled and brushed her cheek with a perfunctory kiss. “Thanks old thing. I can always rely on you.”

  “Yes, you can always rely on me,” she murmured quietly and gave him a small smile.

  Beech looked at her quizzically for a moment, sensing her change of mood but not sure why. “Is everything alright?”

  “Yes, of course,” she replied with forced brightness. “Now off you go and fetch Victoria!”

  Beech nodded and limped away. He had a disconcerting feeling that he had said something wrong but, of course, it would never have occurred to Peter Beech that Caroline longed to be more to him than “a reliable old thing.”

  Caroline watched him limp down the corridor.

  “Yes, you can always rely on me,” she murmured quietly, her heart heavy with jealousy.

  CHAPTER 3

  The concourse at Waterloo was heaving with people, mostly soldiers, some returning home, some wounded or on leave, and other new fresh recruits leaving for France. Beech felt his chest tighten at the memory of returning on an ambulance train, and he cursed the fact that there was no other way to get to Berkshire. He noted the faces of the new recruits change swiftly from casual grins to barely disguised discomfort when the trains disgorged their maimed cargoes in front of their eyes.

  Damn the War Office, he thought. Surely someone could organize things so that the young men going to France left at a different time from the wounded coming back!