Chapter Twelve #2
It had no effect. She repeated the phrase, increasing her volume until he finally made an indecipherable snorting noise and opened his eyes. He looked at her in confusion for a few seconds, then they regained some semblance of clarity.
‘Hello, Sparks,’ he said. ‘Catch any beetles?’
‘A few,’ she said. ‘They’re carnivorous. I released them under your bedclothes before waking you.’
‘I hope they like their meat well done,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think I’d be seeing you until tomorrow.’
‘I had a question for you,’ she said.
‘Something to do with the vengeance quest?’
‘Yes. Were you with Bruce Cater when he was killed?’
His eyes went wide, then distant.
‘I was,’ he said. ‘It was horrible.’
‘What happened?’
‘We were low on ammo, and needed a distraction so we could slip away,’ he said.
‘Bruce made up a petrol bomb. The idea was he was going to heave it into one of the trucks at their encampment and beat it back to us, but as he was running towards them he tripped and the bloody thing went off where he fell. He was covered in flames in an instant. I heard him scream for a few seconds as he rolled around in the grass, but then he stopped. We got our distraction, all right. We left him there and ran.’
‘Any chance he could have survived that?’
‘None,’ said Tony. ‘You didn’t see it, Sparks. He was halfway consumed by the time we picked up and ran. Were you thinking he had returned from the very depths of hell to bring me back with him?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Mind you, if he had, I would have gone with him,’ said Tony. ‘Even to the very depths of hell.’
‘Stay with us a little longer,’ said Sparks. ‘I still owe you a few drinks.’
‘I’ll take you up on that someday,’ said Tony. ‘Then you can tell me what the hell this is all about.’
‘As soon as I know, I will,’ she promised.
‘Bruce Cater burned to death,’ she reported to Gwen in the waiting room. ‘He tripped trying to throw a Molotov cocktail.’
‘That confirms that theory,’ said Gwen. ‘Do you know where the Caters live?’
‘In Cambridgeshire. Outside of Kimbolton.’
‘Good,’ said Gwen. ‘I’ll see if Sally can drive me tomorrow. He’s off on Mondays.’
‘Sally? Why Sally?’
‘I have an idea as to how to gain entry,’ said Gwen. ‘I need to call in a favour first. Shall we head home?’
‘There’s one more person I need to talk to here,’ said Iris. ‘Wait for me.’
She walked out into the entrance hall. Sure enough, the Brigadier’s man was lingering about. She wandered past him, ignoring him while heading towards the telephone boxes. He gave her a few seconds, then turned and followed her.
‘You have a good holiday, Sparks?’ he asked.
‘Was the firm keeping track of my whereabouts?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said. ‘But you weren’t here yesterday, and you’re coming in late today with luggage, so I figured you were off somewhere. Lucky you.’
‘You’ve been on surveillance the entire time?’
‘Trading twelve-hour shifts,’ he said. ‘One of the more boring jobs I’ve had. Essential, but boring. Looks like I’m stuck here for the duration.’
‘It’s like that sometimes, isn’t it?’ said Sparks. ‘Tell you what, when this is all over we should go out for drinks.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Why not? I might as well confine my social life to the firm since I don’t have any privacy anyway. Give me your name and number and I’ll ring you.’
‘I’m not supposed to do that,’ he said dubiously.
‘You’ll find that “I’m not supposed to do that, but here we go” is my motto,’ said Iris with a grin. ‘Especially after a couple of drinks.’
‘If the Brigadier finds out—’
‘You can tell him you were conducting some independent surveillance, acting on a hunch. He likes initiative.’
‘He doesn’t, you know,’ he said, thinking it over. ‘But we’re both working for him, yeah? My name’s Carlton. Carlton Edwards. You got something to write on?’
She produced her notebook and a pencil and handed it to him. He scribbled down a number and handed it back.
‘How long do you think this assignment’s going to last?’ she asked
‘No telling,’ he said.
‘Well, I’ll ring you either way,’ she said. ‘Nice to finally have a name to put to the face. Which is a nice face, by the way.’
‘Likewise,’ he grinned.
She smiled, then walked back to Gwen.
Men are such idiots, she thought.
‘That porter,’ said Gwen as Iris rejoined her. ‘He’s the dock worker who first contacted us, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. He’s been monitoring Tony here.’
‘Did you just pick him up?’
‘I did. I have his number in the same notebook I used for beetling.’
‘Another life-list acquisition?’
‘Hopefully not,’ said Iris. ‘Let’s go home.’
The taxi pulled up by the Cecilia by six.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to have dinner?’ asked Gwen as the cabbie fetched Iris’s suitcase from the boot.
‘Sorry, there’s one more thing I need to look into,’ said Iris. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for the weekend, darling. Next one is on me.’
She got out, collected her suitcase, walked across to her boat and waved before going in. She watched out of the window as the cab drove off with Gwen, then immediately dropped her suitcase on her saloon table and went back out.
Forty minutes later she stood in front of Grenville House, watching people go in and out of the entrance from the other side of Grosvenor Road for a while. Then she walked around to the side of the building and looked up.
Five storeys up, she saw one window that had been boarded up from the inside. She could see scorch marks around the window frame.
Sixty feet up, give or take, she thought.
She stood under the window, then turned and stood with her heels against the wall of the building. Then she paced across the narrow street until her toes bumped up against the building opposite.
Maybe twenty feet, she estimated.
She looked up at the building across from Tony’s flat. The roof was set back another ten feet from where the lowest level hit the pavement.
She looked around until she saw a pebble lying on the ground.
She picked it up, tossed it in the air and caught it a few times, getting a feel for its weight.
Then she drew her arm back and threw it as hard as she could at the boarded-up window.
It fell short by about ten feet, banging off the top of the window frame of the flat below.
Right, she thought.
She walked away quickly in case anyone in the lower flat would be looking to see who was throwing stones at them.
Avery Conley sat at his desk in his office at the BBC in Alexandra Palace on Monday morning, going over his list for the day’s broadcasting schedule.
They were going to be sending out a live performance of The Barber of Seville from the Cambridge Theatre in Seven Dials that evening, and the process of transporting and setting up the bulky cameras and sound equipment was proving to be a logistical nightmare.
But each logistical nightmare was a learning experience, he thought with more assurance than he truly believed. He hummed as he went through everything, then wondered at the tune.
Ah, ‘Blue Blood’ from Iolanthe. That had the lyric with ‘Seven Dials’ in it somewhere. Must have been what prompted it.
His intercom buzzed, and he pressed the lever to connect him to his secretary.
‘Yes, Imelda?’
‘There is a Mrs Bainbridge on the line wishing to speak with you,’ she said. ‘Are you available?’
‘Mrs Bainbridge? How curious. Certainly, Imelda. Put her through.’
A moment later, his telephone rang.
‘Avery Conley here,’ he said.
‘Good morning, Mr Conley,’ came a woman’s voice. ‘It’s Gwen Bainbridge. I hope this isn’t a bad time.’
‘Not at all, Mrs Bainbridge,’ he said. ‘It’s an unexpected pleasure to hear your voice again. How may I help you?’
‘I was wondering if I could ask a rather large favour of you.’
‘Name it. I owe you one after what you and Miss Sparks did for us last spring.’
‘I find myself pursuing another matter of a, shall we say, delicate nature.’
‘Another criminal matter?’
‘Well, yes. We are unofficially assisting Scotland Yard, and I’m afraid I cannot tell you any more details, but I am going into a situation where I will be posing as something that I am not, which is awkward, to say the least, and I would like to use your name and number as a reference should I need confirmation. ’
‘Posing as what, specifically?’
‘As an employee of the BBC.’
‘Interesting,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘What are you planning to do with this new career?’
‘I’m going to interview someone,’ she said. ‘Would you mind terribly letting me pretend for a day or two?’
‘I can do better than that,’ said Conley. ‘I have just hired you as a research assistant, starting immediately. I’ll fire you as soon as you’re finished doing whatever it is.’
‘That is extraordinarily decent of you, Mr Conley. Thank you.’
‘Will you tell me what this is all about when you’re done?’
‘I may not be able to,’ she said. ‘As I said, it’s unofficial.’
‘I understand. Good luck with whatever it is, then.’
‘Thanks again, Mr Conley. Good day.’
‘Goodbye, Mrs Bainbridge.’
He hung up, then buzzed Imelda on the intercom.
‘Yes, sir?’ she answered.
‘Imelda, please add Mrs Gwendolyn Bainbridge to our list of freelancers,’ he said. ‘And if anyone calls, confirm that she’s doing some research for me.’
‘Yes, sir. Shall I alert Personnel as well?’
‘Not necessary, my dear. We’ll let them know when she signs her contract.’
‘Very well, Mr Conley.’
He hung up, then went back to work, singing softly to himself, ‘Spurn not the nobly born with love affected, Nor treat with virtuous scorn the well connected …’
‘Got my cover story set up,’ said Gwen as she hung up.
‘You’re a BBC reporter?’ asked Iris.
‘Nothing so grand or public,’ said Gwen. ‘Merely a researcher doing advance work. A plausible entry-level job for a well-connected socialite with no particular skills, wouldn’t you agree? I’m hoping the Caters will.’
‘Sally’s going with you for this?’
‘Yes, he’s driving me. I telephoned the Cater house last night and made an appointment with Mrs Cater for this afternoon.’