Edith, page 23
‘Naturally,’ says Edith. ‘But it won’t make much difference. Sergeant,
I’m sure you have members of the public landing in on you with all sorts of stories about crimes. Some of them utterly implausible.’
‘It has been known, madam.’
A snatch of drunken song bursts from one of the holding cells. Something about a sailor’s life on the ocean wide.
‘Pipe down, Taffy,’ calls a police constable.
A door is rattled. ‘We was promised tea an hour ago,’ shouts another voice.
‘You’ll get it when I’m good and ready,’ says the constable.
The sergeant raises his voice. ‘Bring them in a cuppa, Acheson. It’ll calm things down. I can’t hear myself think here. Now madam, where were we?’
Edith holds his gaze. ‘Believe me, I am not given to imaginings. I have learned to trust my intuition. But why should you, sergeant? Doubt me, by all means.That’s common sense on your part. Nevertheless, it’s highly suspicious that a chap from one of Michael Collins’s flying columns is hanging around London, pretending to be someone he’s not. The evidence I’m laying before you is circumstantial, nothing more. But I would be failing in my civic duty if I did not report it.’
He opens the incident book and lifts his pen again. ‘Working as a stagehand in the Lyric, you say?’
‘Just so.’ Ethel Smyth jumps in.‘You should haul him in for questioning.’
‘We need to have reasonable grounds, madam.’
‘You have. He’s an Irish rebel. Miss Somerville’s just told you.’
‘England’s had a dose of Ireland to last us for years. But we can’t go hauling in every Mick and Paddy knocking about London. The holding cells would be chock-a-block. Now, could you give me a description of the man, Miss Summers? And do you know what name he’s going by?’
‘Edith, why not draw him? Miss Somerville is frightfully good at portraits, Sergeant.’
‘Words would be preferable, madam.When you’re ready.’
Quickly, Edith provides him with height, build and colouring. ‘You have my name and London address. I’ll be here for several more weeks.’ She turns to Boney.‘I think we’ve occupied enough of Sergeant Holohan’s time. Good day.’
Edith leaves, and Boney has no choice but to follow her out into Charing Cross Road.
‘That fellow was borderline insolent,’ grumbles Boney.
‘He’s the first line of defence, that’s all. It’s a responsible job.’
‘He had all the authority of an amateur organ-grinder. Did your governesses teach you nothing except the multiplication table, Edith? You need to lay down the law with these people. We really should have refused to leave until we saw an inspector.’
Boney is always so emphatic. Edith thinks longingly of an afternoon nap.‘I don’t blame him for being dubious.The story does sound a bit farfetched in the cold light of day. I think I’ll run along home now, dear.You were very kind to come to the police station with me.’
‘You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Edith.’
‘What a passion you have for slaying dragons.’
Despite her best efforts, Edith limps as she makes her way towards the Underground station. She half-turns, intending to wave at Boney, and glimpses a man in a brown derby hat disappearing into a tobacconist’s shop.
‘Rest up, my treasure,’ trumpets Boney.
—
The following day, riffling through the late edition of the Evening Standard, Edith is transfixed by a headline on page four.
Police Raid On London Theatre
STAFF were shocked today at a London theatre when members of the Metropolitan Police raided the premises with an arrest warrant for a scene shifter lately arrived from Ireland.
The drama unfolded at the Lyric Theatre in Hammersmith, home to the successful and long-running musical The Beggar’s Opera. The man did not turn up for work today and police believe he was tipped off in advance and absconded.
Police conducted a search of his lodgings but it yielded no trace of the fugitive. It seems likely the Irishman fled overnight. Neighbours reported sounds shortly before dawn indicating the wanted man making his escape.
An upstairs back window was found lying open by his landlady, Mrs Thelma Barnstable, who is assisting police with their inquiries. A subversive Irish publication was found under the mattress.
‘The man was ever so polite and helpful,’ said promising young actress Miss Rosina Bridewell, who has a small but key role in the popular show. ‘He sounded as English as roast beef. I’m amazed to hear he’s an Irish rebel. I’d never have put him down as one.’
Scotland Yard is asking the public for information on John Green, described as just short of six feet tall and well-built with brown hair and a full moustache. He may also use the name Sean Crowley.
‘I was right,’ says Edith. ‘Just wait ’til Boney hears.’
eighteen
The mistscape stifles everything. Murky and yellow, the fog rolls along, deadening sound, obscuring shapes, pinching extremities. Edith shivers as she gropes her way down Netherton Grove. Her sister-in-law warned her against leaving the house. But Mabel was a ‘laugh in the morning, cry by nightfall’ sort of person, always predicting the worst possible outcome. As soon as she advised Edith to cancel her appointment with Mr Herbert Tring from the Society of Authors, Edith was determined to get to Westminster and keep it. An omnibus from the Fulham Road, only a few minutes away by foot, would carry her almost to the society’s front door.
No sooner has she descended the front steps and walked a few paces than she realizes her error. What looked like a few foggy feelers a little earlier in the day is now a fog in full bloom. It never fails to surprise Edith how quickly it develops in London. She is enveloped in great, smelly buffetings.Within a few paces, she feels damp to the skin. She ties her scarf across her nose and mouth, but the strip of material offers inadequate protection – soon, her eyes are stinging, her throat is raw.
The fog slows her progress to a snail’s pace. At least the streetlights have been lit early. She knows she has to turn right somewhere near here, but street signs are impossible to read and distance can’t be gauged. And does she really want to risk crossing the street? What if she steps straight into the path of an omnibus?
If there was a policeman about, she could ask him to help her across, but it’s as if London has been depopulated overnight.The occasional clop of horse hooves and sputter of a motor engine tell her she isn’t by herself – vehicles are passing – but almost no one else is on the streets. Her heart jumps when a woman holding a lantern looms out of the fog bank and almost collides with her.
‘I say, could you—’ begins Edith, but the woman vanishes as quickly as she materialized. She’s alone again. If only she’d sent Doris, the parlour maid, to the post office on Tothill Street. A telegram to Mr Tring would have taken care of the meeting. Crablike, she edges along, holding onto the sides of buildings and railings. Her foot kicks against something that makes a clatter. It sounds like an empty bottle. She tries to feel for it with her sole, in case it trips her up, but the object has bowled away. The fog gives her the impression she’s been walking in circles. Perhaps she should go into a shop and check her directions. She passes a bakery, but it’s bolted and shuttered. A few doors along is a public house, which appears to be open judging by the glow from its windows and fanlight above the door. She can hear the rise and fall of voices inside. No, she won’t go into a pub. There’s bound to be some other establishment open.
All at once, the metal beneath her fingers turns to air. She pauses, nervous of taking a misstep and stumbling. Swiping through the advancing clouds with her walking stick, she peers ahead, disorientated. It occurs to her that the safest course would be to do a volte-face. An I-told-you-so from Mabel is preferable to a broken leg.
From behind, a disembodied hand cups her elbow. She smothers a cry.
A muffled voice speaks. ‘If you’ll allow me, Miss Somerville. I’ll see you safely to where you’re going.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘A friend from home, ma’am.’
‘I know that voice.’
‘Do you?’
She turns to face the figure emerging from the haze. ‘Is that you, Denis? Denis from back home?’
‘None other, Miss Somerville.’
A scarf covers the lower half of his face. Peering, she recognizes a pair of blinking green eyes. ‘Could you help a lady in distress, Denis?’ Fog enters her windpipe and her breath becomes laboured. ‘I had an appointment. But I’ve changed my mind.’
‘At your service, ma’am.’
‘I’d be most glad … of your arm … to take me home. It’s only a few minutes away.’
‘I’ve a friend with a motor car near here, he’ll give you a lift to wherever you want to go.’ He pulls his scarf away from his mouth, cups his hands around it and cries, ‘Helloooo!’ He waits, eyes watering. Repeats the call. ‘Helloooo!’ Covers his mouth again with his scarf. ‘He’s not far off but you can’t see further than your hand here. I’d go looking for him but then I mightn’t find you again.’
‘You’re very sweet to take this trouble on my account.’ She sneezes, finds her handkerchief by touch in her bag and blows her nose. ‘But really, my brother’s house is quite close. It’s just back up this street.’
‘Let’s give it a minute. My friend is nearby. I thought the sea mists at home were bad but I’ve never known the like of these fogs.’
‘No comparison.’
‘You’d wonder how people manage at all.’
‘In Castletownshend, the people say if you go astray in the mist’ – she hacks out a cough – ‘you’ll find your way home by turning your jacket and hat inside out.’
‘Whisht, now, ma’am. Don’t try to talk.The fog’s getting at your chest.’
She knows he’s talking sense. But something about the isolation caused by the weather conditions forces her to speak.‘A piseog, I dare say. But I’d almost try it today.’
She can tell he isn’t listening.
‘Let me chance going to look for him, Miss Somerville. He can’t be far – I’d stake my mother’s life on it.You stay put now.’
‘Don’t leave me!’ She clamps her hands on his lapels.
Gently, he shakes himself loose. ‘I’ll be back before you know it. I’ll count my paces.That way I can count my way back to you. One, two …’ He plunges away, swallowed up in the swirl.
The rhythm of his footsteps echoes back at her. Listening intently, Edith hears a faint ‘Helloooo.’ She grips the railings, straining to hear it again. Other sounds seep through the fog. The despondent blast of a foghorn, the howl of a dog. Perhaps it’s lost, like her. Alone amid these poisonous vapours, Edith’s doubts spiral. It would be easy for someone to prey on her – snatch her bag or knock her over. Denis told her to wait but he’s a country boy, she begins to doubt his ability to plot a course through a fog-laden city.
‘What should I do, Martin?’ she asks. Her voice sounds timid. It shames her. She can’t turn into a faint-hearted old lady. Edith Somerville must fend for herself.
If she stays in a straight line and retraces her steps, she must reach home. Clamping her hand on the railings, she begins to work her way backwards, stamping as she goes to stop her feet from turning numb. But she must have taken a wrong turn because the glimmer of the Underground sign tells her she’s at Fulham Broadway station.
Any port in a storm. Pursued by tendrils of tobacco-yellow fog, Edith manages to gain the station. There’s a bench near the ticket office. She sinks onto it to catch her breath. A burst of coughing overtakes her, and she pulls down her scarf, takes some deep breaths, and massages her throat with gloved fingers. Some lozenges in her bag might help. She retrieves the packet and sucks on a sweet.
Pages rustling inside the ticket office indicate an employee with nothing but the newspaper to occupy him. By the ticket barrier, she sees another uniformed functionary in an attitude of resentful inactivity. The station is deserted otherwise.
‘I say,’ she calls out to the ticket collector. ‘Excuse me, are the trains running? I need a westbound one.’
‘They are, mum, but there ain’t a westbound train due to pass through here for another forty-five minutes. Fog’s playing havoc with the timetable.’
‘You didn’t wait!’ Panting, Denis bursts into the station, boots thudding across the tiles.
‘I thought you weren’t coming back.Why, you look terrified!’
‘You gave me a fright. I thought something must have happened to you. Come on, now, Miss Somerville. I managed to scare up my pal. He’s outside the station.’
‘I’m not sure about a motor car, Denis.You hear such dreadful stories about collisions in the fog.’
His voice turns wheedling. ‘He’s a careful driver, my friend. You’ll be in safe hands. Door-to-door service.’
His tone is oddly insistent. ‘Have a cough drop while I catch my breath,’ she suggests.
‘No.’ He goes to the exit, waves at someone, hurries back to her. ‘Won’t you come with me, Miss Somerville? I can’t leave you here like this. It wouldn’t be right.’
Edith studies him. He’s over-excited, quivering like a dog on the scent of a fox. The paralysis which overcame her in the fog has worn off. Now that she’s warmed up in the station, she is starting to wonder about the coincidence. First the whistler, then Denis. Two members of the same West Cork flying column here in London. What are the odds? ‘Quite a fluke meeting you, Denis. How on earth did you fetch up in London?’
‘I had to … I wanted … I needed a change, ma’am.’
‘I’m glad you took my advice and got away from those disreputable friends of yours.’
He doesn’t respond. She notices that he’s still wearing his scarf over the lower part of his face, masking his identity. Her suspicions multiply.
‘How did you happen to run across me today?’
‘Luck, ma’am.’
Larded with anxiety, she continues to watch him. It doesn’t take a detective to see he’s ill at ease. All at once, her thoughts untangle. She’s convinced he loitered outside the house and followed her. He must be mixed up in the same business with the theatre as the whistler. Edith realizes she has to shake off Denis. She’s in a public place, there are members of staff nearby – he can’t kidnap her in plain sight. But the minute she climbs into a motor car with him she’s in his power.
She forces a smile to her lips. ‘What a prize fool I was to leave the house today. Now then, I don’t believe I’ll take you up on your kind offer. I’ll just rest here a while and wait for the fog to lift. Goodbye, Denis.’
He bends down and puts his mouth close to her ear. ‘It’s not goodbye yet. I’ve a friend who’s keen for a word with you.’
‘Is he in the same line of business as yourself?’
‘He is. I’m under orders to bring you to him.’
Her eyes flicker to the ticket collector.
‘I’m thinking you’d be as well coming quietly.Your brother’s wife, the Australian woman. At home alone, isn’t she? She’d make a useful hostage.’
‘She’s not alone.Your information is incorrect.’
Something about their interaction alerts the ticket collector, who stares openly at them. Just then a flock of passengers, tired of waiting for trains, disgorges from the escalator and he is forced to attend to his job.
Denis keeps his voice low.‘Don’t tell lies, Miss Somerville.You can’t count on the servants. They wouldn’t lift a finger to help her.’
Edith recognizes the truth in his words. Mabel’s staff aren’t fond of her.
‘Do as you’re told and nobody gets hurt,’ he says. ‘You’ll get home safely, I promise you.’
Her face is immobile but her eyes blaze. ‘Your promises are worthless.’
‘Look, we’ve wasted enough time. The man I’m bringing you to meet isn’t the patient sort.’
Edith’s eyes roam the station in search of someone she can appeal to for help. But there is no discreet way to do it. And if Mabel falls into this gang’s hands, she’ll wither away. Her nerves would never recover.
‘Let’s go,’ says Denis.
Just then, the man in the ticket booth pulls down his hatch and appears through the office door. Slowly, Edith stands up.The ticket seller pays no attention to them as he locks the door and joins the ticket collector for a chat. But Edith changes course and hobbles across to them, waving her walking stick.
‘I say, excuse me.Would one of you gentlemen kindly oblige a lady?’
‘What are you at, you aul’ bitch!’ mutters Denis.
‘I need someone to call me a policeman.’
‘No need, it’s taken care of,’ cries Denis.
‘Could you help me, please? I’d be most awfully grateful,’ says Edith.
‘No problem, mum,’ says the ticket collector. ‘Glad to take a look. Though I wouldn’t bank on any being out and about in this pea-souper. Somefing the matter?’
Denis joins them, so close Edith smells the fresh sweat from his armpits. ‘Bit of a mix-up here. I have a motor car waiting for us.’
‘I don’t want to go with him.’
‘Are you bothering this lady, Paddy?’ The ticket collector moves between them.
‘I’m not, indeed I’m not.’ Denis widens his arms, conciliatory. ‘We know each other from home. I have a car outside for the lady. She’s worried about a friend called Mabel. Jumpy sort, the kind that’d leap right out of her skin if you said boo to her.’
‘No,’ says Edith.‘Leave her alone.’
‘Mabel goes to a bridge club every Wednesday afternoon, doesn’t she? Coleridge Gardens.’
They know Mabel’s name and her movements. She’s outfoxed and knows it.
‘Lady?’ The ticket collector turns to Edith.
‘I – I. Sorry. Thank you. I’ll take him up on that offer of a lift, after all. I shouldn’t have troubled you.’
Denis tries to catch hold of her arm. Straight-backed, she bats him away and stalks to the exit. Outside, patches of London street are popping up and vanishing, as foggy coils shift about, revealing snapshots before blotting them out again. A motorized hackney chugs by the kerb, its window shades pulled down. Edith thinks of the coiste bodhar, the death coach.
