toward her to comfort her.
‘Hush, be quiet,’ Benton said to his wife, ‘You’re making a spectacle of yourself.’
‘Paul was a very good friend,’ Peggy answered him. ‘It’s all so sad!’
She buried her face in her handkerchief and sobbed again.
Benton turned to me. ‘Mrs Pearlie, would you take Peggy outside, please, until she gets control of herself?’ he said. ‘I can’t stand her bawling.’
‘Certainly,’ I said, taking Peggy’s hand and leading her outside on to a narrow covered veranda. We perched on a bench. A wisteria vine that twisted around a marble column dangled its blossoms over our head.
‘I know I embarrass Spencer,’ Peggy said, breathing in short gulps, and rubbing her arm where her husband had gripped it. ‘I’m always so emotional.’
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘If you can’t cry over a friend’s death, what can you cry about?’
‘Spencer thinks I should restrain myself in public. It reflects on him, you see.’
I didn’t comment on that.
‘I didn’t know you and Paul Hughes were so close,’ I said.
‘We were good friends. He came to Rose and Sadie’s apartment several times. He didn’t think that it was stupid for women to talk about serious subjects. Clark’s the same way.’
Peggy’s handkerchief was a sopping mess. I pulled out my own. ‘Let me go dampen this,’ I said. Inside I soaked the handkerchief in a water fountain, but not before I saw Don Murray and Major Wicker go into an office off the hall. Alone.
Peggy wiped her face with my handkerchief, then applied lipstick and powder.
‘I hope I’m presentable enough to assume my role as Spencer’s wife,’ she said. ‘Shall we go back inside?’
More people crowded the reception room, taking time off from lunch to pay their respects. I saw Rose talking to Clark and joined them while Peggy, pale but composed, went to her husband. Both Rose and Clark looked grim.
‘Peggy is terribly upset,’ I said to them. ‘I had to take her outside.’
‘She’s very emotional,’ Rose said. ‘Cries over everything. Not that Paul’s death isn’t sad. And such a freak accident!’
‘Sounds like he tried to come back to the District before he’d fully recovered,’ Clark said.
‘I’m surprised he tried to walk to the streetcar stop,’ I said. ‘You’d think he’d have caught a taxi home if he didn’t feel well.’
Clark shrugged.
‘If he had a fever he might not have been thinking clearly,’ Rose said. She looked at her watch. ‘I need to get back to work,’ she said. We all did.
The reception room emptied quickly and I joined the crowd of people crossing 23rd Street to our building.
Just as I took the first step up the steep stone staircase to the renovated apartment house that housed the Research and Analysis Division a man touched my shoulder from behind.
‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘can you wait for a minute, please? I must speak to you.’
Startled, I pulled away. ‘I don’t know you,’ I said. ‘What do you want?’
He pulled out a small leather case and flipped it open, displaying a Metropolitan Police badge.
‘Let’s get away from this crowd,’ he said, nodding down the hill to a spot where a bunch of forsythia bushes clustered, blooming bright yellow.
‘I need to get back to work,’ I said.
‘This won’t take a minute. I insist.’
I glanced around. None of my co-workers, scurrying back to their offices, noticed us.
The two of us sheltered behind the thicket of forsythia bushes. I had a powerful sense of foreboding. What did this policeman want with me?
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Royal, Metropolitan Police,’ he said to me, showing me his badge again so I could see the number clearly. ‘Write it down if you like, check me out.’
He was an older man, plenty old enough to be retired. He probably still worked because of the war. He was dressed in a well worn but respectable suit and tie. A dilapidated fedora, which looked like it had repelled a lot of rain
‘Hush, be quiet,’ Benton said to his wife, ‘You’re making a spectacle of yourself.’
‘Paul was a very good friend,’ Peggy answered him. ‘It’s all so sad!’
She buried her face in her handkerchief and sobbed again.
Benton turned to me. ‘Mrs Pearlie, would you take Peggy outside, please, until she gets control of herself?’ he said. ‘I can’t stand her bawling.’
‘Certainly,’ I said, taking Peggy’s hand and leading her outside on to a narrow covered veranda. We perched on a bench. A wisteria vine that twisted around a marble column dangled its blossoms over our head.
‘I know I embarrass Spencer,’ Peggy said, breathing in short gulps, and rubbing her arm where her husband had gripped it. ‘I’m always so emotional.’
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘If you can’t cry over a friend’s death, what can you cry about?’
‘Spencer thinks I should restrain myself in public. It reflects on him, you see.’
I didn’t comment on that.
‘I didn’t know you and Paul Hughes were so close,’ I said.
‘We were good friends. He came to Rose and Sadie’s apartment several times. He didn’t think that it was stupid for women to talk about serious subjects. Clark’s the same way.’
Peggy’s handkerchief was a sopping mess. I pulled out my own. ‘Let me go dampen this,’ I said. Inside I soaked the handkerchief in a water fountain, but not before I saw Don Murray and Major Wicker go into an office off the hall. Alone.
Peggy wiped her face with my handkerchief, then applied lipstick and powder.
‘I hope I’m presentable enough to assume my role as Spencer’s wife,’ she said. ‘Shall we go back inside?’
More people crowded the reception room, taking time off from lunch to pay their respects. I saw Rose talking to Clark and joined them while Peggy, pale but composed, went to her husband. Both Rose and Clark looked grim.
‘Peggy is terribly upset,’ I said to them. ‘I had to take her outside.’
‘She’s very emotional,’ Rose said. ‘Cries over everything. Not that Paul’s death isn’t sad. And such a freak accident!’
‘Sounds like he tried to come back to the District before he’d fully recovered,’ Clark said.
‘I’m surprised he tried to walk to the streetcar stop,’ I said. ‘You’d think he’d have caught a taxi home if he didn’t feel well.’
Clark shrugged.
‘If he had a fever he might not have been thinking clearly,’ Rose said. She looked at her watch. ‘I need to get back to work,’ she said. We all did.
The reception room emptied quickly and I joined the crowd of people crossing 23rd Street to our building.
Just as I took the first step up the steep stone staircase to the renovated apartment house that housed the Research and Analysis Division a man touched my shoulder from behind.
‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘can you wait for a minute, please? I must speak to you.’
Startled, I pulled away. ‘I don’t know you,’ I said. ‘What do you want?’
He pulled out a small leather case and flipped it open, displaying a Metropolitan Police badge.
‘Let’s get away from this crowd,’ he said, nodding down the hill to a spot where a bunch of forsythia bushes clustered, blooming bright yellow.
‘I need to get back to work,’ I said.
‘This won’t take a minute. I insist.’
I glanced around. None of my co-workers, scurrying back to their offices, noticed us.
The two of us sheltered behind the thicket of forsythia bushes. I had a powerful sense of foreboding. What did this policeman want with me?
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Royal, Metropolitan Police,’ he said to me, showing me his badge again so I could see the number clearly. ‘Write it down if you like, check me out.’
He was an older man, plenty old enough to be retired. He probably still worked because of the war. He was dressed in a well worn but respectable suit and tie. A dilapidated fedora, which looked like it had repelled a lot of rain
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