After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) (5 page)

‘Why don’t you get a taxi to your club, sir?’ suggested Bill. ‘You do have a club, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course, but …’ He looked indecisively at Mrs McAllister, slumped on the steps with her eyes closed.

‘I really think you’d better leave this to us, sir,’ said Bill firmly. He waved his hand at a cruising taxi on the opposite side of the road. The taxi driver turned the cab and drew into the kerb beside them.

‘What’s all this?’ demanded the driver, his elbow over the side of the window, looking at Mrs McAllister. ‘D’you need a hand?’

‘No, there’s an ambulance on its way,’ said Bill. ‘But you can take these gentlemen to the …’ He broke off and turned to Mr Lythewell. ‘Which club, sir?’

‘Reynolds,’ said Mr Lythewell in a distracted way. ‘Reynolds in St James, but I really think we should stay.’

Colin opened the door of the taxi and helped his father into the cab. ‘There’s nothing you can do, Mr Lythewell,’ he said, turning back to him.

‘Oh, very well,’ agreed Mr Lythewell. He turned to Colin. ‘Askern, it might be as well if you escorted my niece home.’

‘I’ll be fine, Uncle Daniel,’ said Betty. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

The clang of a distant bell sounded. Mr Lythewell got into the taxi beside Mr Askern and, with a concerned backwards look, they drove away as the ambulance turned the corner.

The clanging of the ambulance bell stirred Mrs McAllister into semi-wakefulness. She opened her eyes and struggled to sit up.

The bell stopped as the ambulance came to a halt. The driver and his assistant got out and came up the steps. ‘Is this the lady who collapsed?’ asked the driver, looking at Bill and Jack. ‘Are you relatives?’

‘No,’ said Bill. ‘We’re just passers-by. I’m a police officer. Neither this gentleman nor myself have ever met the lady before, but she’s got her name sewn into her coat. She’s a Mrs J. McAllister.’

The ambulance driver stooped over the woman. ‘Mrs McAllister? Can you stand up for us?’

She nodded and he put a hand under her arm. ‘That’s the ticket,’ said the driver. ‘We won’t need the stretcher, Alf,’ he called over his shoulder to his assistant. ‘Not if these gents can give us a hand to get her into the ambulance. Come along, Mother,’ he said in a loud, cheerful voice to Mrs McAllister. ‘You’ve had a nasty turn, but we’ll soon have you right.’

She stared at him in bewildered incomprehension. ‘Art,’ she muttered.

‘What’s that?’

‘She said
art
,’ said Jack.

The two ambulance men exchanged puzzled looks.

‘I can’t understand it,’ put in Betty Wingate. ‘We’d just come out of the art exhibition’ – she gestured to the building behind her – ‘and this poor woman came up to us with her tray of flags, heard us talking about the paintings and so on, yelled “Art!” and keeled over.’

Out of sight of Mrs McAllister, Alf tapped the side of his head in a significant gesture. ‘Maybe she had a touch of the sun,’ suggested the driver tactfully.

This suggestion seemed to Jack, in view of the fairly chilly April day, to be monumentally unlikely, but he let it go.

‘Never you mind about art, Mother,’ said the driver with brusque kindness. ‘You come along with us and we’ll have you there in two shakes of a duck’s tail. You’ll be as right as a trivet in no time. A nice cup of tea and a sit-down is all you need, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Art,’ muttered Mrs McAllister once more, but she allowed herself to be helped into the ambulance.

‘Poor woman. She must be off her head,’ said Betty as the ambulance drove away.

And that, thought Jack, was probably the top and bottom of it.

The following Thursday Jack spent six productive hours tidying up next month’s issue of
On The Town.
Duly liberated and with Archie Keyne, his editor, placated – for the time being, at any rate – he walked along Fleet Street to the Strand. Coming towards him, by Lowther’s Arcade, he saw a middle-aged, dark-haired woman he vaguely recognised.

Instinctively he raised his hat, but instead of passing on with the expected nod and smile of greeting, the woman stopped and drew herself up haughtily.

‘Are we acquainted, young man?’

As soon as he heard her voice, with its odd swoops and inflexions, he remembered who she was. It was the flag-seller from the exhibition.

Jack’s heart sank. The last thing he wanted was to be involved with a woman who, however rational she might seem at the moment, was, on the evidence of their last meeting, definitely odd.

‘It’s Mrs McAllister, isn’t it?’ he asked guardedly.

Her air of haughtiness increased. ‘That is my name, yes. You’ll excuse me if I say I cannot recollect you.’

‘I was there the other day when you had your little … er … mishap.’ That was as good a way as any of describing someone who’d keeled over, stretched out on the pavement and raved about art. ‘Outside Lyon House. I helped you into the ambulance,’ he added hastily as her eyebrows shot up to alarming heights.

Mrs McAllister froze for a moment, then suddenly relaxed, smiled and tittered in a manner that could only be described as girlish. ‘My word,
what
you must have thought of me, Mr … er …’

‘Haldean.’

‘I’m sure it was so kind of you to take the trouble to come to the aid of – well …’ she tittered once more, ‘a
damsel in distress
, if I can describe myself as such. I really don’t know what came over me. I can only think how lucky I was to have such a gallant gentleman close at hand. I was completely overcome. The doctor at the hospital – so kind, everyone was so kind – agreed that it must have been the heat and spending so much time on my feet. I am glad to sell the flags. It really is
such
an important cause, but, as the doctor said, it really was just too much for me.’

She tittered once again but Jack was suddenly struck by her acute gaze.

She’s lying, he thought. She’s seeing how I’m taking it. Why?

‘The doctor was probably right,’ he said reassuringly, noticing how she relaxed. ‘I hope you’re taking things easy.’

She smirked as if he’d shared a private joke. ‘Take things easy? I certainly intend to,’ she said warmly. ‘Very easy indeed in the very near future.’

That was difficult to find an adequate – or, indeed, any – answer to, so he changed tack. ‘I’m glad to see you suffered no permanent ill-effects.’

‘No, none whatsoever, I’m glad to say,’ said Mrs McAllister brightly. ‘I was up and about again in no time.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it. Excuse me, Mrs McAllister, but I couldn’t help wondering why you said
art
before you collapsed.’ She gave him a quick, guarded look. ‘I just wondered what you meant, that’s all,’ said Jack with a laugh. ‘It seemed such a strange thing to say.’

She laughed unconvincingly. ‘I suppose it might seem strange, but I’ve always been very sensitive. As a girl, I was noted for the intensity of my feelings. “Joan,” my dear Mama used to say, “you shouldn’t
feel
things so deeply.” Like everything my dear Mama said, it was good advice, but one cannot change one’s essential nature. In fact, it would be wrong to try. To be true to one’s essential nature is paramount, I believe. To be able to feel, to experience true sympathy with another’s plight, is a real gift, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I suppose I would,’ said Jack, as she looked at him expectantly.

‘And really, Mr … er …’

‘Haldean.’

‘When I saw you all outside the exhibition, so well-dressed, so affluent, so disdainful of money, well, the
contrast
overwhelmed me.’

‘The contrast?’ asked Jack, perplexed.

Mrs McAllister’s eyes gleamed. ‘With my cause. The cause of the poor waifs and strays for whom I was collecting those few spare coppers. A mere trifle to you, no doubt, but life and death to those poor mites. I was asking for pennies, that was all, while in that building the rich were prepared to spend hundreds – thousands even – on
art.
Why is it that painted representations of human beings are so much more valuable than actual people?’ She sighed deeply. ‘I tell you, Mr … er …’

‘Haldean.’

‘The bitter irony of it struck me to the heart. Art, indeed! Art, when children are homeless and starving. What is the good of art?’

‘Your feelings do you credit, Mrs McAllister,’ said Jack gravely. Inwardly he was dying to laugh but, more than that, he was puzzled. He was certain she was attempting to pull some very sanctimonious wool over his eyes.

She grasped his arm. ‘I am very glad to have met you, Mr … er … Haldean, was it? Very glad indeed. I am grateful for the opportunity to offer you my thanks in person. Indeed, I have been comforted by the thought that, even among the idle rich, there exist good Samaritans who do not hesitate to come to the aid of one in dire need.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Jack with a smile. He could hardly call the woman a liar to her face, and if she didn’t want to tell him the whole truth, that was, strictly speaking, none of his business.

She released his arm. ‘Good day, sir, and thank you again for your help.’

‘Not at all.’

She inclined her head and walked away.

And what, thought Jack, was that rigmarole all about?

‘Did you ever hear anything more of that woman who collapsed outside Lyon House?’ he asked Bill Rackham that evening, over a game of snooker in the Young Services club. ‘Mrs Joan McAllister?’

‘No, I can’t say I have,’ said Bill, leaning over the table and sighting the cue ball. He chinked the red into the pocket. ‘Why?’

‘I ran into her outside Lowther’s Arcade this afternoon,’ said Jack, leaning on his cue. ‘The thing is, I asked her what she meant when she said
art
, and she came out with what I’m convinced was a load of old rubbish, about the contrast between us, who she categorised as the idle rich, and the waifs and strays she was collecting for.’

‘Good grief,’ said Bill, lining up on the yellow. ‘Idle rich? I wish. If there were any plutocrats amongst us, I didn’t meet them, and as for that girl, whatsername …’

Jack frowned. ‘Miss Wingate?’ he guessed.

‘That’s the one. She’s as poor as a church mouse, despite having been to a fancy school. She’s a bit of a waif and stray herself, by the sound of things. Askern told me about it. Apparently her father was a solicitor who tried to get clever with investments. When he died, there was only a pittance left.’

‘Poor kid,’ said Jack. ‘That’s really tough. What did Miss Wingate do?’

‘There was damn all she could do. She’s had odd jobs, but there aren’t many opportunities for a girl in her position.’

‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Jack thoughtfully. ‘A well-educated girl scares off a lot of people. I’ve noticed that before.’

‘Well, they don’t fit in, do they? They’re too posh to be a junior and they don’t know enough to be useful. She’d never met the Lythewells, but when her father died she dropped them a line to tell them the news. Then, a few months ago, just when she was at the end of her tether, Mr Lythewell and his wife invited her to stay. According to Askern, it’s a dog’s life. Mrs Lythewell treats her as an unpaid companion, there to do her bidding and calling.’

‘Poor kid,’ said Jack once more.

‘Yes, that’s more or less what Askern said,’ said Bill, potting the yellow. ‘Reading between the lines, I think he rather likes her.’

Jack took the yellow ball from the pocket and tossed it from hand to hand. ‘So there might be a happy ending after all?’

‘I’m not so sure,’ said Bill, sighting the red. ‘Askern’s a practical sort of beggar. If Miss Wingate had some money of her own, that’d make a difference, but as it is …’ He shrugged. ‘I just don’t know.’

Jack felt oddly indignant on Betty Wingate’s behalf. ‘That shouldn’t matter, not if he really likes the girl.’

Bill laughed cynically. ‘I agree it shouldn’t, but it does though, doesn’t it? It’s not really our concern. I don’t suppose either of us will ever see her again.’

Jack felt oddly put out by the thought. ‘No, I don’t suppose we will.’

But as it happened, both of them were wrong.

It was the first Thursday in May, a glorious spring day with the promise of real warmth in the air.

Far too good a day, thought Jack, as he finished a late breakfast, to stay indoors. Feeling pleasantly full of bacon, eggs and toast, he stuffed some tobacco from the jar into his pipe and, going to the window, creaked open the sash and, striking a match, leant out.

The sun caught the soot-streaked red brick of the buildings across Chandos Row and turned the grimy windows into sheets of gold against an impossibly blue sky. From Oxford Street came the subdued hum of traffic, the sound hollowed out as it funnelled between the brick canyons of the city.

He was thinking, in an idle sort of way, of Betty Wingate, the Lythewells and Colin Askern. Funnily enough, he thought he’d come across the name Lythewell before. Presumably he’d seen an advert for the firm somewhere or other, but that didn’t seem quite right. He hoped Colin Askern didn’t let Betty Wingate down. She seemed a nice girl, a good kid, someone who deserved better than to be a fetcher and carrier for her aunt. Her eyes were bright and kind and he liked the way her hair waved—

‘Oi!’ came a call from below.

He looked down and there, three stories below, was Bill Rackham and, unlikely as it seemed, Betty Wingate.

‘Excuse us dropping in,’ said Bill, minutes later as Jack ushered them into the room. ‘Miss Wingate turned up at the Yard wanting to see me. It’s actually my day off, but Miss Wingate was very insistent that she saw me, so they gave me a call, and here we are.’

‘I was sorry to disturb you, Mr Rackham, but I couldn’t think of who else to turn to,’ put in Betty.

‘I knew you wouldn’t mind us coming along,’ said Bill. ‘It’s an odd story, Jack, and I thought it best that you heard it at first hand. It’s a rum sort of business.’

‘Better and better,’ said Jack cheerily. ‘I love odd stories.’ It was unexpectedly good to see Betty again. ‘Please sit down, won’t you?’

Betty looked at the heap of papers on the sofa and hesitated.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Jack apologetically, coming forward to clear a space. ‘I was working last night and my wretched papers get everywhere.’