Death At Chelsea: A 1920s murder mystery by Anna Sayburn Lane

Author:Anna Sayburn Lane [Lane, Anna Sayburn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Starling Street Books
Published: 2024-05-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 26

Mrs Jameson’s plan worked up to a point. Bert, on his release from Pimlico police station, was furious. He refused to go back to Chelsea, but he also refused to go with us to Bedford Square.

‘I’ve had enough of being told what to do,’ he said. ‘They’re all against the working man – the toffs, the government, the police. You have to look after yourself in this life. No-one’s going to do it for you.’

‘Too blooming right,’ said Frankie. ‘I’ll drink to that. Tell you what, why don’t we? It’s gone five o’clock and there’s a pub around the corner. I could murder a pint after all the graft I’ve put in for your Missus today, Bert. None of which comes under the usual duties of a chauffeur, I might point out.’

I was surprised. Frankie wasn’t usually one for drinking during the daytime, especially if she had to drive. She grinned at me and winked.

‘You won’t tell, will you, Marge? Come and have a lemonade with us. Digging trenches isn’t part of what a secretary usually does, either, is it? You can drive us back later. They won’t know what time Bert got out, will they?’

That was true. Peregrine and Lavinia had disappeared by the time Frankie and I got to Pimlico police station, having given their statements and left. And I hardly ever got the chance to get behind the wheel of Mrs Jameson’s Lagonda. It was much more fun to drive than the ambulances I’d learned on during the War. And if Bert wouldn’t talk to Mrs Jameson, he might just talk to Frankie and me.

The Pelham Arms was a rather inviting public house. It was bright with flowers – wallflowers in window boxes, purple and yellow pansies making a mass of colour in hanging baskets around the door. The three of us, on the other hand, were not the most attractive customers the pub had ever welcomed. Frankie and I were mired from the knee down. Bert was unshaven, having got up early to meet the train with the plants and then spent the day being questioned in a police station. However, the proprietor did no more than eye us curiously and recommend we sit in the snug.

‘The saloon bar gets a bit rowdy for ladies on an evening,’ he said, his glance returning to Frankie, clearly unsure whether she was to be included in this category or not. She smiled cheerily, ordered two pints of best bitter and a lemonade ‘for the lady’, then sat in an armchair in the snug with her knees wide, leaning her forearms on her thighs. Her trousers were filthy, and her boots caked in mud.

Bert took a long swallow of his beer and leaned back, eyes closed. ‘Needed that.’

‘You’ve had a rotten day,’ observed Frankie.

‘I’ve had better,’ he agreed. ‘This stuff about Dad being poisoned. Who would do such a thing? My mum’s going to be so upset. At least they’ve stopped accusing me. She couldn’t have borne that.’

Poor Mrs Smith.

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