private. The bank book was found by the coroner’s assistant, secreted in a
pocket on Meggie Fannon’s vest, and he returned it to Fannon. There were legal procedures to go through because Meggie left no will, but nor did she have any other kin and eventually Joshua
found himself a man of property with money in the bank.
He had not planned for this day as long as he had yearned for it, but he was not unprepared, either. He decided he would not be idle but would use his inheritance to build a bigger fortune by
uniting his capital with his experience. He would become a bookie. He would not stand on street corners to take the bets and risk being chased by the pollis. He would pay somebody else to do that
while he sat in comfort, checking the gambling slips and money as they were brought to him, and grew rich.
It was beyond his fearful imagining that he could be involved again in the plotting of murder – but in time, he would.
Sophie did not know that, nor did she know him, and slept peacefully in her bed.
8
Summer 1936
The Bavarian
bierkeller
was crowded, dimly lit and smoky. The four girls, all made up and trying to look older than their fifteen or sixteen years, had secured a table
near the little dance floor and the band. They had set out in a spirit of bravado, led by Sophie, who told them, ‘The old girl will be sound asleep by eleven.’ She was referring to
their headmistress. ‘She won’t know anything about it.’ So they had crept past her door, run down the stairs and out of the hotel. Now it was past midnight. They sipped beer and
tried to keep up their act as blasé young adults, tried also to ignore the ogling of the handsome young men at the tables around them.
Pamela Ogilvy collected most of the glances. She was tall, and her full figure and long, blonde hair attracted the men. She was aware of their glances, and while nervous of returning them she
blushed and basked in the admiration.
Sophie returned any of the looks that came her way, grinned and shook her head when one of the youths came to speak to her. Pamela asked, jealous, ‘What did he say?’ The other two
girls leaned forward to hear.
Sophie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Couldn’t hear with all the noise. Probably what they all say.’ Now the band had stopped playing and were leaving the little stage to take
a few minutes’ break. Sophie watched them go. Only a pianist was left.
Pamela suggested, provoking, ‘Why don’t you get up and sing, Sophie?’ The others laughed.
So did Sophie. ‘All right.’ Then she was on her feet and edging between the tables, crossing the floor and climbing on to the stage. Her painfully acquired German deserted her then,
but the little man at the piano knew more than enough English to understand what she wanted. He started to play the introduction and Sophie turned to face the crowd. Everyone in the
bierkeller
knew this was one of the English girls. And was she about to sing? There were cheers, jeers, catcalls and laughter.
Sophie stepped forward, and paused with her weight on one long leg, the other slightly bent, hands on hips. High heels added two inches to her height while the poor lighting carved hollows in
her cheeks, putting ten years on her age. She pitched her voice even lower than usual to match the song and the act – a take-off of Marlene Dietrich. And the crowd were watching, listening
to, another striking blonde. They were silent as she sang. When she finished they bawled their appreciation and hammered on the tables.
They easily persuaded her to sing again and she held them until the band returned, then sang all the way back to the hotel. Pamela Ogilvy said little.
Helen Diaz spent some of her summer holiday training with the St John’s Ambulance Brigade. She had joined at eleven as a cadet, with her mother’s urging (‘It
will help you when you go to be a nurse’). She worked enthusiastically and was proud of her white cap and grey dress, with the Service Star
pocket on Meggie Fannon’s vest, and he returned it to Fannon. There were legal procedures to go through because Meggie left no will, but nor did she have any other kin and eventually Joshua
found himself a man of property with money in the bank.
He had not planned for this day as long as he had yearned for it, but he was not unprepared, either. He decided he would not be idle but would use his inheritance to build a bigger fortune by
uniting his capital with his experience. He would become a bookie. He would not stand on street corners to take the bets and risk being chased by the pollis. He would pay somebody else to do that
while he sat in comfort, checking the gambling slips and money as they were brought to him, and grew rich.
It was beyond his fearful imagining that he could be involved again in the plotting of murder – but in time, he would.
Sophie did not know that, nor did she know him, and slept peacefully in her bed.
8
Summer 1936
The Bavarian
bierkeller
was crowded, dimly lit and smoky. The four girls, all made up and trying to look older than their fifteen or sixteen years, had secured a table
near the little dance floor and the band. They had set out in a spirit of bravado, led by Sophie, who told them, ‘The old girl will be sound asleep by eleven.’ She was referring to
their headmistress. ‘She won’t know anything about it.’ So they had crept past her door, run down the stairs and out of the hotel. Now it was past midnight. They sipped beer and
tried to keep up their act as blasé young adults, tried also to ignore the ogling of the handsome young men at the tables around them.
Pamela Ogilvy collected most of the glances. She was tall, and her full figure and long, blonde hair attracted the men. She was aware of their glances, and while nervous of returning them she
blushed and basked in the admiration.
Sophie returned any of the looks that came her way, grinned and shook her head when one of the youths came to speak to her. Pamela asked, jealous, ‘What did he say?’ The other two
girls leaned forward to hear.
Sophie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Couldn’t hear with all the noise. Probably what they all say.’ Now the band had stopped playing and were leaving the little stage to take
a few minutes’ break. Sophie watched them go. Only a pianist was left.
Pamela suggested, provoking, ‘Why don’t you get up and sing, Sophie?’ The others laughed.
So did Sophie. ‘All right.’ Then she was on her feet and edging between the tables, crossing the floor and climbing on to the stage. Her painfully acquired German deserted her then,
but the little man at the piano knew more than enough English to understand what she wanted. He started to play the introduction and Sophie turned to face the crowd. Everyone in the
bierkeller
knew this was one of the English girls. And was she about to sing? There were cheers, jeers, catcalls and laughter.
Sophie stepped forward, and paused with her weight on one long leg, the other slightly bent, hands on hips. High heels added two inches to her height while the poor lighting carved hollows in
her cheeks, putting ten years on her age. She pitched her voice even lower than usual to match the song and the act – a take-off of Marlene Dietrich. And the crowd were watching, listening
to, another striking blonde. They were silent as she sang. When she finished they bawled their appreciation and hammered on the tables.
They easily persuaded her to sing again and she held them until the band returned, then sang all the way back to the hotel. Pamela Ogilvy said little.
Helen Diaz spent some of her summer holiday training with the St John’s Ambulance Brigade. She had joined at eleven as a cadet, with her mother’s urging (‘It
will help you when you go to be a nurse’). She worked enthusiastically and was proud of her white cap and grey dress, with the Service Star
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