Sick of Shadows Part 19

Helped by his companion, they both stumbled out of the office and down the stairs.

The injured party was Cyril Banks and he had to wait, moaning and crying, while Berrow found a doctor who would keep his mouth shut, knowing that the police would be checking the hospitals. Because he was an inveterate smoker and kept a spare cigarette case inside his elastic-sided boot, his foot was only badly bruised.

After the doctor had left, he and Berrow sat down to think up ways and means of getting that photograph back.

Harry knew who the culprits probably were and told the police. But when they called on Cyril, it was to find he appeared to be walking normally and there was no sign he had been shot. Threatened with everyone from the king to the prime minister, the police backed off with apologies.

When he heard the news, Harry a.s.sumed that they had hired a couple of men. "Maybe," he said to Ailsa, "you should take some leave. They will try again."

"I am not afraid," said Ailsa, "although I did have a fright. I am afraid I helped myself to some of your whisky."

"That's all right. But be vigilant. There is a police guard now on the door downstairs."

"We need to be subtle," said Berrow. "She looked like a real dried-up spinster. What about getting someone to romance her? Let me think. Who needs money?"

"Most of London society."

"We need a charming wastrel."

"There's Guy Delancey. Still owes me a packet from a baccarat game. But if he courts her and gets that negative, maybe there's another print with it and he'll see that photograph."

"Don't worry. I'll tell him how we were set up."

The dark days moved on to Christmas. The earl was preparing to remove to Stacey Court in the country. Harry had been invited to join them, and to Rose's amazement had accepted. He had been at her side as much as he could, but always at social occasions, and had not seemed to make any push to be alone with her.

Rose still diligently worked at the soup kitchen, forgetting in her zeal that the idea had originally been to get her photograph in the newspapers. She now wore her hair tightly bound up in a disinfected turban. At times she wearied of the smell and degradation of the people she was serving and could only marvel at Miss Friendly's unremitting and cheerful manner.

A hard frost had London in its grip. The earl ordered that the water pipes outside the town house were to be lagged with old sheets because he could see the burst pipes of less diligent owners glittering with long icicles.

Ailsa was leaving work one evening. She stopped outside a butcher's shop and looked up at the fat geese hanging from hooks.

A light pleasant voice behind her said, "Which one would you like?"

Ailsa turned round. In the light of the shop, she saw a fas.h.i.+onably dressed man with a dissipated face and his tall silk hat worn at a rakish angle.

"I am admiring the birds, sir," she said. "I will not be buying one."

"Going to be alone at Christmas?"

"Yes."

"Me, too. Look, it's dashed cold evening. Why don't you join me for a drink in that pub over there?"

Ailsa surveyed him from under the brim of her black felt hat ornamented with a pheasant's feather. She had not had much to drink that day. Although Harry paid her a good salary, a large part of it went to an orphans' charity, some on food and rent and the rest on gin.

A pub was a public place. Nothing could happen to her there. Also, she was curious to find out why this man had waylaid her.

"Very well, sir," she said. "But just one. I have a weak head and I am not accustomed to strong liquor."

Guy Delancey felt relieved. Berrow had said to charm her, get her drunk and either get the office keys out of her reticule or make her so besotted with him that she would turn over the negative.

He took her arm and guided her across the road through the traffic, which had ground to a halt as usual. The newspapers were complaining that the whole of London was seized up with too much traffic.

He found a corner table in the pub. A waiter came bustling up. "What will you have, miss? Champagne?"

"No, I might try some gin. My mother used to like gin."

"Gin it is. Make it a large one, and I'll have a large whisky."

When the drinks arrived, Guy introduced himself. Ailsa thought of using a different name but then gave him her real one.

"Drink up," said Guy.

"My father always used to say, 'Bottoms up,' and drain his gla.s.s. I've never tried that."

"Let's try it now."

"Bottoms up," said Ailsa and knocked back her gla.s.s in one gulp. Guy followed suit.

He called the waiter and ordered another round. "That poor waiter, running to and fro," said Ailsa. "Why does he not just bring the bottles?"

"Good idea!" Gosh, thought Guy, she'll be putty. A few more gla.s.ses and she'll do anything I want. He surveyed Ailsa with her flat chest, thin pale face and hooded eyes. Probably had nothing stronger than a gla.s.s of sweet sherry in all her life.

The waiter, as ordered, brought a bottle of whisky and a bottle of gin to the table.

"I'll be Mother," said Ailsa, just as if she were pouring tea instead of liquor. "Bottoms up!"

Guy soon began to feel his senses reeling. "I shay," he said, "where d'you work?"

"I work for an orphans' fund," said Ailsa. "This is fun. Bottoms up!"

"You mean you don't work for Captain Cashcart?"

"Never heard of him," said Ailsa. "Bottoms up!"

Guy lurched to his feet. He had made a dreadful mistake. He had followed her from the office in Buckingham Palace Road. But there were other offices there.

"Gotto go," he said thickly.

Ailsa watched as he staggered from the pub.

Lady Glensheil was late for a dinner party. She opened the trap on the roof of her carriage with her stick. "The traffic has cleared, John," she shouted to her coachman. "Go faster. Spring those horses."

"Very good, my lady."

Guy, lurching out of the pub onto the road, never saw the carriage hurtling towards him until it was too late.

At the sound of the scream and the crash, everyone ran out of the pub.

Ailsa gathered up her scarf, gloves and reticule and walked out. A carriage was lying on its side and an autocratic lady was being helped out. Guy was lying on the road, blood pouring from his head.

"Are the horses all right, John?" called Lady Glensheil.

"Yes, my lady."

"Thank goodness for that. I would not like to think good horseflesh had been ruined by some drunk."

The conspirators did not hear the bad news until they read the following day's Evening News. Evening News. "Young man-about-town, Mr. Guy Delancey, was killed when he walked in front of Lady Glensheil's carriage. Witnesses say he had been drinking heavily in the Fox and Ferret with a lady. Police are urging his companion to come forward." "Young man-about-town, Mr. Guy Delancey, was killed when he walked in front of Lady Glensheil's carriage. Witnesses say he had been drinking heavily in the Fox and Ferret with a lady. Police are urging his companion to come forward."

"And are you coming forward?" Harry asked Ailsa, who had told him the whole story.

"No, sir. Better just to leave it as it is."

"Quite right. Berrow and Banks probably hired someone to get you drunk. You say you were drinking water in a gin gla.s.s and he didn't even notice?"

"No, sir. He did not. I think he had a very weak head." Ailsa had no intention of betraying her capacity for gin to anyone.

Berrow and Cyril stared at each other in horror in The Club over their copies of the Evening News. Evening News.

"You know what?" said Cyril.

"What?"

"That Cathcart fellow's going to kill both of us. He's engaged to Lady Rose again. I'm telling you, he's vicious."

Berrow folded his newspaper. "Tell you what, I'm going north to my place in Yorks.h.i.+re for Christmas. Come along. We'll leave as soon as possible. If that maniac turns up anywhere near us, I'll get the keepers to shoot him!"

Rose, once again serving in the soup kitchen, found the cheerful religious man she had met before standing in front of her.

"The Lord be with you," he said, holding out his bowl.

"And with you, sir," said Rose.

"The Lord is good," he said, looking at her with s.h.i.+ning eyes. "His angel come to me in prison."

"And you will sin no more?" asked Rose.

"Bet your life I won't, missus," he said cheerfully. "Can I have an extra helping?"

When she and Miss Friendly had finished, they returned to the town house where the maids were beginning to pack their trunks preparatory to the move to Stacey Court.

Before she went upstairs, Miss Friendly said, "Please tell Miss Levine I have her frock ready."

"I hope everyone is not taking advantage of you."

"No, not at all. I enjoy the work."

Daisy looked in awe at the dark blue taffeta gown Miss Friendly had designed and made for her. It was cut low on the bodice and trimmed with little pearls at the edge of the neckline.

"Did you do this without a pattern, Florence?" asked Daisy, who was the only one to call Miss Friendly by her first name.

"I studied such a gown when we were visiting Madame Laurent's salon and suddenly realized I could create something like it."

"You should speak to Lady Rose about opening your own salon."

"That would take a great deal of money and my lady has been generous enough."

Daisy thanked her and went off lost in thought. What if she, Becket and Miss Friendly got together to open a salon? She and Becket could handle the business side. Rose could be persuaded to wear Miss Friendly's creations as a form of advertis.e.m.e.nt. She and Becket could then marry.

Daisy wore the new gown that evening. Lady Polly kept flas.h.i.+ng angry little glances at her. Harry had joined them for dinner.

Rose was feeling depressed. Harry was certainly playing his part of being the faithful fiance, but there was something aloof and guarded about him when he spoke to her.