Chapter 12 Among the Pigeons
“The police, they’ve identified two of the women in the house of murder,” Mina told Greta, who was curious enough to pause her dusting of the landing skirting board.
“Yesterday they didn’t know who any of them were.
But in today’s evening paper they’ve given two names.
And listen to this: One lived on Warwick Road.
That’s just over there.” She pointed at the window. “She was twenty-five, they reckon.”
“And they all died same way?” asked Greta.
“Yup. Strangulation with a ligature.”
Greta looked quizzical.
“Some type of cord, or rope,” clarified Mina.
“They were prostitutes? Runaways?”
“Well, that’s the thing, we don’t know! One of them was six months pregnant.”
Sighing deeply, Greta twisted her duster into a narrow strip, as though forming a ligature to hang the culprit. “You and George, you must be very careful. No going out at night.”
“You as well, of course.” Mina wasn’t sure if Greta ever went out at night. No one knew how she passed the time when she wasn’t at Tregunter Road. No one had ever dared ask. But it was only polite, felt Mina, to include her in the group vulnerable to an on-the-loose sex murderer.
Greta made a pfft sound and resumed her vigorous dusting.
When she reached the attic floor, she cast a quick eye over Robbie’s room—all spick-and-span—then went into Jimmy’s.
She had promised not to clean in there. But whether he liked it or not, it was her job to make sure no stray coffee cups were forgotten, or damp towels left on the floor.
And lo, there was a dirty ashtray at the bedside.
Honor didn’t allow smoking in the bedrooms—she worried about the house going up in flames—so she’d be hearing about that.
Greta walked around the narrow bed to retrieve it.
Something unusual caught on her peripheral vision.
She crouched down and had a closer look, revulsion drawing her lips inward.
Between finger and thumb she lifted a towel from under the bed.
It was stiff with rusty stains, seemingly left by large amounts of blood.
She stood up, folded the filthy item into as small a parcel as possible, and put it in the front pocket of her capacious apron.
Perhaps it would be needed as evidence. Even better, she thought with relish, she might be called as a witness in court.
Back in 1942, she had acted as a witness in Gerald’s divorce, but to her great disappointment she wasn’t required to attend the trial in person.
She merely had to provide a sworn statement.
At the solicitor’s office, further disappointments had greeted her.
Furry gray dust gathered in little wells where filing cabinets met the carpet.
The receptionist girl wore a costume more suited to a male impersonator at a vaudeville hall.
And when Greta was given a cup of tea, the saucer had a chip.
Magnanimously ignoring these lapses in standards, she confirmed that yes, one afternoon she had surprised the respondent, Mr. Gerald Wilson, in bed with the co-respondent, Miss Honor Petrova.
The petitioner, Mrs. Barbara Wilson, was out of the house, doing work for the Women’s Voluntary Service.
All lies, of course. The very idea of Barbara lifting a finger for anyone else’s benefit!
But Gerald, may his soul rest in peace, said it was the kindest way to do things, and bought Greta a crate of Mercer’s Meat Stout, her favorite.
Greta shut Jimmy’s bedroom door behind her and descended the stairs, cradling her apron protectively.
On the second-floor landing, she passed him coming in the other direction.
He wished her a good afternoon. She stopped and gave him a look you might give to a hairball the cat had thrown up. Then she quickened her step.
Rude old cow, he thought. What had he ever done to her?
Mina went into George’s room to tell her the latest on the murders, but George interrupted her. “Please, I’d rather not know. It’s too vile.”
“But my dear, the murderer is at large. In all likelihood he’s scoping out new victims. Fresh meat.
” Mina said the phrase in dramatically hushed tones.
“You know, my dad thinks I ought to go home for a while, thinks London’s not safe.
I wrote back and told him he was being silly.
Besides, I’ll be eighteen in a couple of weeks.
I can’t go running back to Mum and Dad whenever a crime’s committed within a ten-mile radius.
” On the little settee, she moved a pile of clean washing to make a space and sat down.
“But he’s not totally wrong, I suppose. We really must keep our wits about us. ”
“A lady must always keep her wits about her,” said George haughtily.
From the top of the laundry pile, she took some French knickers and put them in her chest of drawers.
“It’s my understanding that these women probably lived with the prime suspect.
He didn’t need to grab victims from off the street.
Unless Honor starts offering rooms to murderers, we can probably rest easy in our beds. ”
Mina thought about this as George folded some slips. “They—those poor girls—didn’t know, though, didn’t they? That they were living with a murderer, I mean. They’d never have lived there otherwise.”
Examining one of the garter straps on a longline girdle, George said, “Mina, you’ve got good little sewing fingers, haven’t you?”
Nodding absently, Mina took the garment. “But don’t you see? For all we know—”
George laughed. “Saul has managed to resist murdering us so far. So has Robbie. As for Mr. Sullivan—I don’t believe he’d hurt a fly, do you? In fact, I know he wouldn’t.”
In her own room, Mina heard Jimmy’s footsteps above, the closing of his door, and his progress down the stairs. As though by chance, she came up behind him and said, “Off out? Nice evening for it. I do love it when the days get longer, don’t you? It’s nearly April, at last.”
“I’m off to the pub,” confirmed Jimmy. “Why don’t you join me?”
“Oh, I’d love to, but I’ve got to go into work. One of the other girls is ill, and I’m taking her shift.”
“Another time, then.” Jimmy doffed his hat in farewell. Mina pretended to go into the kitchen and listened for the slam of the front door. She waited another few minutes, then went back upstairs and into Jimmy’s room.
Where to look, she wondered. Beneath the sloping ceiling was a neatly made single bed with an iron bedstead.
Between the bed and the wall, a folding leather stool held a foil ashtray and an alarm clock.
In the opposite corner, at the ceiling’s highest point, was a narrow wardrobe made of mottled wood.
A black cardboard suitcase with brass clasps sat on top.
Mina knelt on the floor and, craning her neck, peered under the bed.
Next to some magazines—dirty ones if she was any judge; she averted her eyes—there was a Lilley & Skinner shoebox.
She grabbed it and looked inside: used envelopes, letters, receipts, and goodness knows what else formed a disorderly stack.
On top was a piece of thick cream notepaper, folded in half, which she opened and smoothed out.
It took her a moment to make sense of it.
The embossed black letterhead was an address in Westmoreland Terrace, SW1.
Then, in swirly feminine handwriting, it said,
March 7, 1953
Dearest George,
The chap you want is Dr. R. Jenkins, telephone BATT 3946, 23 York Mansions, Prince of Wales Drive, SW11.
Do let me know how you get on, won’t you? Good luck, darling. And don’t worry, it’ll all come out in the wash!
All my love,
Fiona xxx
Perhaps, thought Mina, the letter was about George getting rid of her baby.
But why did Jimmy have it? She rifled through the rest of the box’s contents and pulled out a photograph.
She didn’t hear the feet on the stairs. She only heard the scrape of the door handle.
Her stomach falling, she shoved the photograph into a stocking top, slid the box back under the bed, and stood up.
Jimmy, shoeless for some reason and holding his hat, smiled at her and raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
“Back already?” she said. “You’ll think me awfully careless, but I’ve lost an earring and I’ve searched and searched! I thought maybe it had got stuck to the sole of someone’s shoe or something, so I’m having a quick look on all the floors. It’s my favorite pair, too.”
“You’ve got dust on your nice skirt,” he said, pointing to her knee. “My fault. I said I didn’t want that old bag, the cleaner, coming in here, poking around. You can’t trust foreigners, can you?”
Mina stepped forward to leave, but Jimmy closed the door quietly behind him. “So did you find it, then? Can I help you look?”
“Find what? Oh, my earring. No, don’t worry. I think it might have fallen out at work when I was changing into my uniform.”
He gazed at her. “You’re quite the little storyteller, aren’t you? Why don’t you tell me what you’re really looking for?”
“I just did, silly!” Nonchalantly she brushed some dust off her skirt and said, “Well, I won’t keep you.
” He said nothing, just kept looking at her.
His expression was calm. But she saw an odd glint in his eye, as if in spite of her breeziness he knew she was frightened.
She quickly opened the door and walked down the first flight of stairs, then ran until she’d reached Saul’s rooms.
Jimmy dropped his hat on the bed. He glanced toward the door, then took the pistol holster from the inside pocket of his overcoat, placing it carefully on the bedside table.
I’ll put it back tomorrow, he thought. Hopefully Robbie wouldn’t even notice it had gone.
Anyway, he’d probably have lent it to Jimmy if he’d asked.
But it wasn’t like borrowing a scarf or a book.
He’d need to offer a reason, and what could he say?
That he was supposed to take the motorcar back, but ever since Saul gave him the third degree in the pub, he’d been gripped by a dreadful paranoia?
Obviously Jimmy couldn’t tell Robbie why he felt nervous going to East London, not without coming clean about everything.
And it wasn’t the right time for that. Not yet.
When the right time came, though, Robbie would understand. Jimmy was sure of it. So long as he explained everything. Put across his side of the story. For once, he thought with satisfaction, someone would listen to his side of the story.
He sat down and his racing heart began to slow. What was Mina hoping to find? Did she suspect his and Robbie’s affair? Or—he wasn’t sure which was worse—was Saul properly onto him?
Paul was expecting his motorcar back tonight. Jimmy had promised. But going anywhere near his old area, even with Robbie’s gun as protection, now felt laden with doom.
“Mina, what’s happened?” said Saul when he saw her flushed, excited face. “Sit down. I’ll get you a drink.”
“I went in Jimmy’s room. You know, to snoop.”
She carried on talking, and he didn’t interrupt until she began explaining that Jimmy had caught her almost red-handed. “Oh no, Mina, he—”
“Nothing happened!” she reassured him. “He was definitely suspicious, but I made up an excuse.”
Saul exhaled. “You say nothing happened, but think of what could have happened! I can’t have you putting yourself in danger like this. I simply can’t. It’s not worth it.”
“No, but it was worth it, because look.” She produced the photo, and they both stared at it.
A freckle-faced young lad in shirtsleeves and braces was posing with a bicycle, smiling, a tuft of hair escaping a neatly combed side part to fall on his forehead.
On the brick wall behind him was an advertisement for Turf cigarettes, next to half a shop sign.
“Lavner’s Domestic Store,” said Saul. “It was in Stepney. Still is.”
The boy was unmistakably Jimmy, aged fourteen or fifteen.
“But he looks sweet, doesn’t he?” said Mina sadly. “I wonder what happened.”
Saul reached for the bottle to refresh her drink and pour one for himself. “You girls don’t have locks on your doors, do you?”
“No. I can’t say I’ve ever given it a second thought. Do you think I ought to warn George?”
“Let’s wait,” he said. “We need to be absolutely certain before we throw the cat… where do we throw the cat?”
“Among the pigeons,” supplied Mina. “But then, once we’re sure, what will you do? Will you make Honor kick him out?”
But that wouldn’t be enough, thought Saul.
He’d leave here, and then what? Unless he was stopped altogether, he’d go and do harm elsewhere.
It wasn’t simply a matter of vengeance, although Saul felt almost overpowered by that impetus.
By the thought of how different his life might have been.
But what’s done is done, he thought. What mattered now was the present, the future.
If he saw the threat Jack posed—and he did, there was no escaping it—wouldn’t failing to act be the immoral choice?