A Burglary In Belgravia by Lynda Wilcox

Author:Lynda Wilcox [Wilcox, Lynda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: 1920s mystery, women sleuths, historical mystery, Traditional British
Publisher: Lynda Wilcox
Published: 2019-11-01T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

Thinking that her journey to Fleet Street had been largely a waste of time, Eleanor drove away and considered what approach she should take with Bristol’s secretary, Miss Haringay.

She had been happy to name her client to Driscoll, whom she took to be a man of the world, but any mention of Deanna Dacre might not go down so well at her next port of call.

Bromwich Street lay in an area of London that was unfamiliar to Eleanor. She drove around the surrounding streets, acquainting herself with the area for some little time before she parked and walked to the entrance of what had once been an elegant Georgian townhouse, similar to the Bakewells’ own.

In the open plan lobby, an exceedingly glamorous receptionist possessed of a large bosom flashed Eleanor a toothy smile and demanded to know how she could help. The smile beat a fast retreat at the mention of Miss Haringay’s name, however, and she took Eleanor’s card as gingerly as if it were on fire, and disappeared with it through a side door.

Left to her own devices, Eleanor stared around at the opulent surroundings, not much changed since the days when Number 23 had been a private residence. A pair of fine oil paintings hung on one wall, portraits of previous owners, perhaps, and she strode across for a closer look.

The paintings were dark with age and so in need of cleaning it was impossible to see who had painted them. Maybe Totters with his degree in Fine Art would have been able to identify and tell her more about the artist, but Eleanor’s attention was in the detail of the clothing which was lavishly embroidered, each stitch clear and precise upon the canvas even under the murk and grime.

She stared so intently that she almost missed the conversation taking place some distance behind her. The voices of a man and a woman were low, but distinct.

“The shoulder isn’t important now. I know it’s Thursday.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Quite sure. Nine o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“I am never late,” came the waspish reply.

The man’s voice was unmistakeable, but the woman’s voice, although distinctive, was unknown. Eleanor did not turn around. She stepped closer to the wall and lowered her head to peer at the painting.

A cold draft on her ankles announced the opening of the front door and she shifted her position slightly, careful to keep her back to the opening and the two people on the step.

“Have no fear.” The man’s voice was confident. “We shan’t fail.”

The second voice was muted in reply before the door closed.

Eleanor went over the conversation, fixing every word in her mind. She would report it to Armitage later.

“Lady Eleanor Bakewell?”

A hand fell on her arm. Eleanor looked down at it. “Yes?”

“I’m Miss Haringay. You wished to see me?”

The waspish voice went with a waspish face. Small, grey haired, and wearing a pair of wire-framed spectacles on her sharp bony nose, Sir David Bristol’s secretary had clearly been chosen for her competence, not her looks.

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