man tore himself free and planted his hands on the desk belligerently. ‘Rot. I’m waiting for Nancy Watkins. Why are you all here? Is anything wrong?’
Rose looked at him sharply. ‘Why should it be? And who’s Nancy Watkins and what’s she to you? And whatare you doing in the cellars?’ He motioned to the constable to take notes.
‘I had an arrangement to meet her downstairs at seven thirty this morning. She didn’t come. She’s one of the maids here.’
‘Seems an odd sort of time for a maid to arrange to meet her young man?’
‘She isn’t really a maid. And I’m not her young man.’ Anxiety gave an edge to his tone. ‘She writes a column for
London Watchman
, and I’m on their staff too. Danny Nash. She was here about an important news story she was after for the magazine.’
‘What story?’ Rose was suddenly very interested. It was a long shot, but—
Danny shook his head. ‘She wouldn’t tell me. She kept things very close, you see. And it was her first big story. Normally she does Household Hints. But she did say she had to be careful because it might be dangerous. That’s why I said I’d camp here in the cellars and she was to slip out to see me each day.’ There was another reason for his presence too, but he’d keep that to himself. ‘Yesterday she came, but not today.’ He looked from Rose to Auguste, picking up their silence. ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Something’s happened to her.’
Rose got up from his chair. ‘Bad,’ he said gruffly. ‘She’s dead.’
‘Dead.’ The young man stared at them aghast. ‘Murdered?’
‘You think that was likely?’ Rose shot at him.
‘I believe
she
did,’ he said soberly. ‘I see that now, otherwise she wouldn’t even have agreed to my camping here. She would do it all herself. Women need a man in a job like ours.’ He banged a fist on the table. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said vehemently. ‘I’ll find out who killed her.’ He paused. ‘She did say she’d give me oneclue, but I couldn’t make anything of it without some more to go on. It was Marlborough.’
‘What about Marlborough?’ said Rose sharply.
‘Nothing more – just that. She liked being mysterious,’ said Danny, in despair at the ways of women.
The editor of the
London Watchman
led his unwelcome visitors into his study, irritated at being caught in carpet slippers and playing at toy theatres on the floor. Boxing Day was no time to have to think of work. There he was given the unwelcome news of the death of one of his staff and the fact that another was by no means clear of suspicion.
‘Nancy? Murdered? But we’re the
Watchman
,’ he babbled. ‘Surely it can’t have anything to do with us? That sort of thing doesn’t happen nowadays, does it? It must be a gentleman friend of hers,’ he diagnosed with relief. ‘Or a lunatic! I liked Nancy,’ he added sadly. ‘Nice young lady. Orphan, you know. Made her own way in life. Didn’t land up on the streets like so many others. She did well. Must have been a
crime passionnel
.’
‘Perhaps, sir, but if so it was committed by someone in the hotel; no one came in or out during the night, so the porter said.’ Not the front entrance, anyway, Rose was thinking to himself. ‘What was the story she was working on?’
The editor gave an exclamation of combined relief and annoyance. ‘She wouldn’t tell me! She wrote a column of household hints, and I told her she didn’t have time to go gallivanting after stories. But she would have it. She’d do it over Christmas, she said.’
‘She told you nothing else?’ Rose stared gloomily round the untidy cubbyhole, wondering how editorial words of such weight and wisdom could emanate from here each month and disgorge themselves into thehighly regarded
Watchman
. Then he remembered that his own office at the Factory bore a great resemblance to this cubbyhole – to the outside eye – and warmed to Mr Jonus Martin.
‘Told me, no. I did get, um, a
Rose looked at him sharply. ‘Why should it be? And who’s Nancy Watkins and what’s she to you? And whatare you doing in the cellars?’ He motioned to the constable to take notes.
‘I had an arrangement to meet her downstairs at seven thirty this morning. She didn’t come. She’s one of the maids here.’
‘Seems an odd sort of time for a maid to arrange to meet her young man?’
‘She isn’t really a maid. And I’m not her young man.’ Anxiety gave an edge to his tone. ‘She writes a column for
London Watchman
, and I’m on their staff too. Danny Nash. She was here about an important news story she was after for the magazine.’
‘What story?’ Rose was suddenly very interested. It was a long shot, but—
Danny shook his head. ‘She wouldn’t tell me. She kept things very close, you see. And it was her first big story. Normally she does Household Hints. But she did say she had to be careful because it might be dangerous. That’s why I said I’d camp here in the cellars and she was to slip out to see me each day.’ There was another reason for his presence too, but he’d keep that to himself. ‘Yesterday she came, but not today.’ He looked from Rose to Auguste, picking up their silence. ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Something’s happened to her.’
Rose got up from his chair. ‘Bad,’ he said gruffly. ‘She’s dead.’
‘Dead.’ The young man stared at them aghast. ‘Murdered?’
‘You think that was likely?’ Rose shot at him.
‘I believe
she
did,’ he said soberly. ‘I see that now, otherwise she wouldn’t even have agreed to my camping here. She would do it all herself. Women need a man in a job like ours.’ He banged a fist on the table. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said vehemently. ‘I’ll find out who killed her.’ He paused. ‘She did say she’d give me oneclue, but I couldn’t make anything of it without some more to go on. It was Marlborough.’
‘What about Marlborough?’ said Rose sharply.
‘Nothing more – just that. She liked being mysterious,’ said Danny, in despair at the ways of women.
The editor of the
London Watchman
led his unwelcome visitors into his study, irritated at being caught in carpet slippers and playing at toy theatres on the floor. Boxing Day was no time to have to think of work. There he was given the unwelcome news of the death of one of his staff and the fact that another was by no means clear of suspicion.
‘Nancy? Murdered? But we’re the
Watchman
,’ he babbled. ‘Surely it can’t have anything to do with us? That sort of thing doesn’t happen nowadays, does it? It must be a gentleman friend of hers,’ he diagnosed with relief. ‘Or a lunatic! I liked Nancy,’ he added sadly. ‘Nice young lady. Orphan, you know. Made her own way in life. Didn’t land up on the streets like so many others. She did well. Must have been a
crime passionnel
.’
‘Perhaps, sir, but if so it was committed by someone in the hotel; no one came in or out during the night, so the porter said.’ Not the front entrance, anyway, Rose was thinking to himself. ‘What was the story she was working on?’
The editor gave an exclamation of combined relief and annoyance. ‘She wouldn’t tell me! She wrote a column of household hints, and I told her she didn’t have time to go gallivanting after stories. But she would have it. She’d do it over Christmas, she said.’
‘She told you nothing else?’ Rose stared gloomily round the untidy cubbyhole, wondering how editorial words of such weight and wisdom could emanate from here each month and disgorge themselves into thehighly regarded
Watchman
. Then he remembered that his own office at the Factory bore a great resemblance to this cubbyhole – to the outside eye – and warmed to Mr Jonus Martin.
‘Told me, no. I did get, um, a
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