’er on a train to London where a bloke ’e knew arranged for ’er to work at a job in service, with ’er wages bein’ sent to the family, leavin’ the girl with a bit of pocket money to get by. The mum told the neighbor that the ’usband’s mate’d said that accommodations and keep were all found.”
“I’m sure.” Maisie shook her head. “And what about this business with the medicines?”
“That’s on ’er dead father’s side. Turns out they didn’t much like Avril’s new stepdad but couldn’t do anything about it. The family were in a tricky position, what with the business about the woman who’d killed a man with the ’erbs and what ’ave you. From what I know, it was the father’s sister, the girl’s aunt—apparently they was tight, the two of ’em.”
“Can you find out more about that, Billy, and the aunt’s activities?”
“Workin’ on it already.”
“Good. And if you can, find out the name of whom she was sent to in London. By the way, any sign of the newspapers, or even of Stratton’s men?”
“Not a dickey bird. Bit strange, that, ain’t it, Miss?”
“Yes, it is. Anyway, you’ll be traveling back tomorrow afternoon. We’ll talk first thing Monday morning.”
“Very good, Miss. I’m glad I caught you, only telephoned on the off chance. I was a bit surprised when they said you was still up there in the Smoke.”
“Change of plan. I’d best be off now, Billy. See you Monday. Take Doreen out for a nice dinner tonight.”
“Right you are, Miss. Ta-ta.”
Maisie replaced the telephone receiver. So Avril Jarvis was sent to London by a violent stepfather. To whom did he send her? It was common for a family friend to be called uncle —so was this a relative of the stepfather or did uncle have another connotation? Billy would find the answer.
T HE M OOR’S H EAD Hotel had been built in the early 1800s. Following a period that could only be described as “genteel decline,” it had been refurbished by new owners in 1925 and was now a rather sumptuous place that regularly drew visiting academics, families of students, and an influx of American travelers keen to enjoy a much-admired city. Maisie arrived just after noon on Saturday and, following lunch in the hotel dining room, claimed her MG from the garage that had once been stabling for carriage horses and made her way to the Lawton country home.
As she drove across the Cambridgeshire fens to the village of Farthing, she remembered how captivated she had been by the flat farmlands, so very different from the soft hills of Kent and Sussex. Farthing was a small yet busy village, with a number of people out and about their business, whether visiting the grocery shop, the post office, or the butcher. It was still too early to see a steady stream making their way to the King’s Arms, though at evening opening time she was sure the local hostelry drew quite a few customers. Saplings, the Lawton home on the edge of the village, had originally been built as a vicarage but was subsequently deemed too grand for a country parson. The Lawtons had bought the house before Ralph was born, when it was customary for a man in Cecil Lawton’s position to own not only a house in London but a country home to which he would travel when his work in the City was done at the end of the week. For some years now, Lawton’s work was frequently “done” on a Thursday and did not continue again until Monday afternoon.
A manservant answered the door and showed Maisie into the drawing room, where Lawton was waiting for her. Instead of the more formal clothes worn in chambers, Lawton was wearing plain gray gabardine trousers, a brushed cotton shirt with small checks, a cravat at his neck, and a tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows. He immediately stretched out a hand to greet Maisie.
“Good of you to come so soon, Miss Dobbs. I’m glad you’re cracking on with the work. Any conclusions yet?”
Maisie smiled. “Oh, goodness,
“I’m sure.” Maisie shook her head. “And what about this business with the medicines?”
“That’s on ’er dead father’s side. Turns out they didn’t much like Avril’s new stepdad but couldn’t do anything about it. The family were in a tricky position, what with the business about the woman who’d killed a man with the ’erbs and what ’ave you. From what I know, it was the father’s sister, the girl’s aunt—apparently they was tight, the two of ’em.”
“Can you find out more about that, Billy, and the aunt’s activities?”
“Workin’ on it already.”
“Good. And if you can, find out the name of whom she was sent to in London. By the way, any sign of the newspapers, or even of Stratton’s men?”
“Not a dickey bird. Bit strange, that, ain’t it, Miss?”
“Yes, it is. Anyway, you’ll be traveling back tomorrow afternoon. We’ll talk first thing Monday morning.”
“Very good, Miss. I’m glad I caught you, only telephoned on the off chance. I was a bit surprised when they said you was still up there in the Smoke.”
“Change of plan. I’d best be off now, Billy. See you Monday. Take Doreen out for a nice dinner tonight.”
“Right you are, Miss. Ta-ta.”
Maisie replaced the telephone receiver. So Avril Jarvis was sent to London by a violent stepfather. To whom did he send her? It was common for a family friend to be called uncle —so was this a relative of the stepfather or did uncle have another connotation? Billy would find the answer.
T HE M OOR’S H EAD Hotel had been built in the early 1800s. Following a period that could only be described as “genteel decline,” it had been refurbished by new owners in 1925 and was now a rather sumptuous place that regularly drew visiting academics, families of students, and an influx of American travelers keen to enjoy a much-admired city. Maisie arrived just after noon on Saturday and, following lunch in the hotel dining room, claimed her MG from the garage that had once been stabling for carriage horses and made her way to the Lawton country home.
As she drove across the Cambridgeshire fens to the village of Farthing, she remembered how captivated she had been by the flat farmlands, so very different from the soft hills of Kent and Sussex. Farthing was a small yet busy village, with a number of people out and about their business, whether visiting the grocery shop, the post office, or the butcher. It was still too early to see a steady stream making their way to the King’s Arms, though at evening opening time she was sure the local hostelry drew quite a few customers. Saplings, the Lawton home on the edge of the village, had originally been built as a vicarage but was subsequently deemed too grand for a country parson. The Lawtons had bought the house before Ralph was born, when it was customary for a man in Cecil Lawton’s position to own not only a house in London but a country home to which he would travel when his work in the City was done at the end of the week. For some years now, Lawton’s work was frequently “done” on a Thursday and did not continue again until Monday afternoon.
A manservant answered the door and showed Maisie into the drawing room, where Lawton was waiting for her. Instead of the more formal clothes worn in chambers, Lawton was wearing plain gray gabardine trousers, a brushed cotton shirt with small checks, a cravat at his neck, and a tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows. He immediately stretched out a hand to greet Maisie.
“Good of you to come so soon, Miss Dobbs. I’m glad you’re cracking on with the work. Any conclusions yet?”
Maisie smiled. “Oh, goodness,
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