Page 10 of The Locked Room

Something in his tone sent a warm tingle down her spine, the suggestion of admiration pleased her more than she wanted to admit. She concentrated on navigating the other pedestrians, determined to keep her reaction business-like. ‘Even so, you must tell me if I go too far. I don’t want to cause you problems.’

‘Looking into Miss Eccleston is a favour to your family, rather than you,’ Oliver countered. ‘The matter with Polly is merely tying up loose ends from Mildred Longstaff’s case, who was a client and therefore still a matter of interest to me. So you’re only making one request on your own behalf and I must confess to a certain amount of curiosity of my own with regard to that, in spite of the risks.’

‘Really?’ She eyed him with some surprise. He’d been so against the notion of investigating that she hadn’t considered his own interest had been piqued.

‘Really,’ he said as they reached the entrance to the Underground. ‘You’ll make a Watson of me yet.’

Harry smiled. ‘There’s no one I’d rather have,’ she said, and reached for the carpet bag. ‘Goodnight, Mr Gill.’

Oliver inclined his head gravely. ‘Goodnight, Mr Thompson. Or is it Miss Moss?’

‘Just Harry to you,’ she said, squeezing his arm before turning away to enter the station. ‘Always just Harry.’

But as she made her way down to the platform, she was uncomfortably aware of the fluttering in her stomach, the glow in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the sudden warmth of the station air. The more time she spent with Oliver, the more she was reminded of all things about him she admired; his quick mind, dry wit and unerring determination to do what was right. Not to mention his good looks, courteous manners and excellent taste in wine. He really did make it difficult to keep a clear head, she thought with some exasperation. One thing was certain, she decided as the train approached. Sherlock Holmes had never had this problem.

5

As with many fashionable areas of London, the people on the streets before dawn each morning were very different to those seen once the sun had risen to a respectable height in the sky, and Berkeley Square was no exception to this. Harry had groaned when her alarm clock had dragged her from her dreams at five-thirty, but she had risen and dressed in scruffy trousers, a worn coat and a grubby flat cap pulled low over her eyes. Wearily, she slipped out into the shadows of Mayfair, just another labourer on his way to work. In the half-light, street cleaners whistled to each other as they gathered the rubbish that had accumulated overnight. A chimney sweep cradled his brooms with purpose as he crossed the road in front of her, nodding a greeting, and a baker’s boy rang his bell to warn her of his approach, his cart loaded with deliveries. The Georgian terraced houses overlooking the square were dark and silent, save for the occasional light in the lower-floor windows as the domestic staff prepared the house to greet the day. Neither the sweep nor the baker’s boy were destined for the immaculate front doors that faced Berkeley Square. They were aiming for the tradesman’s entrance, which Harry imagined would be accessed by back alleys on each side of the square. She intended to satisfy herself on that point shortly, but not before she had taken a stroll past the house where the theft had taken place.

It was easily identified by the burly policeman standing guard at the front door. Harry took care not to seem too curious as she passed by, even though she longed to study the unlit windows to see if they might have offered a way inside. Apart from its lone sentry, she saw nothing to differentiate number 48 from the other houses in the row – they were all four storeys tall, white stucco walls with attic windows peeping from the roof tiles. She supposed it might be possible to scramble across the rooftops and enter through an open window but that possibility would have been one of the first things considered by Scotland Yard. Apart from the windows, there were no other obvious entry points, at least from the front. Satisfied there was nothing more to be gleaned, Harry made her way to the end of the square and set about finding the tradesman’s entrance.

The alleyway lay on Charles Street, heralded by an archway wide enough to admit a cart and lit by an electric lantern hanging overhead. Harry slowed as she approached, wary that there might be a police guard here too, but there was no uniformed presence to deter her. She passed by once, as though on her way somewhere else, and glanced past the yellow circle of light and into the gloom beyond. As far as she could tell, the alleyway was empty. She kept walking, turning the corner into Hays Mews and pausing as though lost. In the unlikely event that someone was observing her, they would have seen a puzzled young man slap his forehead and turn on his heel to duck confidently into the alley.

She made her way along the lit passage, squinting into the shadow that followed until it widened into a long, rectangular courtyard. One side was lined with doors that Harry assumed corresponded to the houses facing into Berkeley Square, and the other with properties on Hays Mews. Each door was lit by a small lamp fastened to the wall, spilling a meagre glow onto a brass plaque and a button to press for attention. She crept forward, glancing cautiously around to ensure no one watched from the darkened windows, and paused beside number 48. There did not seem to be anything unusual – no tell-tale scratches or marks on the fittings to suggest someone had picked the lock. Harry craned her head, peering up at the windows. A ladder might offer access to the upper floors, but it was hardly an inconspicuous approach and the household staff hadn’t reported anything amiss. She took in the roof, once again observing that a sure-footed thief might find it possible to enter through an attic window, had one been left ajar. But this was not an opportunistic crime, she reminded herself; a window would need to be opened by arrangement, and the police seemed satisfied that none of the staff had been involved in the theft. Her gaze travelled thoughtfully down the walls and over those of the neighbouring houses. All seemed equally solid and impenetrable. How had the burglars got in and out without being seen?

A sharp rustling in the alleyway caused the hair on the back of Harry’s neck to stand on end. She whirled around, staring into the darkness. Was it a policeman making his rounds? Had she been seen ducking into the passage? What could she say to explain her presence? She tensed, preparing herself to barge past the newcomer and flee to safety. And then a low growl snaked towards her, followed by a volley of high-pitched barks. Damn. That changed things. A dog might snap and bite, catching hold of her trousers or coat and delaying her escape. And from the sound of things, it had already picked up her scent.

‘Pipe down, Rosie,’ a coarse male voice grumbled. ‘It’s too early for that racket.’

A moment later, the dog appeared in the courtyard, brown-and-white ears flattened against its wiry skull as it glared balefully at Harry. A low rumble continued to sound and she saw it was a terrier of some kind, scruffy and unbrushed and tethered by a length of string attached to a frayed collar. The string was held by a dirty, stoop-shouldered man, who also carried a number of narrow metal cages. Matted grey tufts sprouted from beneath a sagging cloth cap and a voluminous overcoat flapped around his body as he came to an abrupt halt. His gaze narrowed at the sight of Harry. ‘What have we here, then? A thief come to steal old Welcome’s earnings?’

The dog growled again and Harry decided she did not want to cross either of them. Shaking her head, she summoned up a rough Cockney accent. ‘No, mister. I came for a job. Only there ain’t no one answering.’

The man sniffed. ‘Not surprised at this hour.’ He eyed her with increased suspicion. ‘What kind of job?’

‘Errand boy,’ Harry said, thinking fast. Her size might make her appear younger than she was, especially in the gloom. ‘At number 50.’

The dog was still snarling with mistrust but broke off when the old man gave a sharp tug on the string. ‘That’s enough, I say.’ He glared at Harry. ‘Just you stay there while I check my traps. I’ll soon know if you’re lying.’

Harry could only stare at him. Traps? What on earth could he mean by that? And then her attention fell on the metal cages over one shoulder, and the presence of the terrier at his side, and she knew. ‘You’re a rat catcher.’

‘The best there is,’ he said, sounding proud. ‘If you was from round here, you’d have heard the name Welcome Dobbs and no mistake.’

Without waiting for a response, he limped to a shadowy, unlit corner of the yard and knelt. Rosie seemed torn between continuing to glower at Harry and following her master, but after a moment she scampered towards the corner, ears pricking up as she went. There was a clang of metal, a yap from Rosie and a grunt from the old man. Harry did not want to imagine what the traps held but it seemed to satisfy the rat catcher. Getting to his feet, he turned to study Harry once more and she saw two limp bodies in his hands. She tried to look unperturbed as they were swiftly stowed into the tattered bag that crossed his body. ‘You want to be careful of that house,’ he rasped, nodding towards the door at Harry’s shoulder. ‘Got a bad history, it has.’

She risked a glance backwards. Which house did he mean? ‘Number 50?’

Dobbs nodded. ‘Oh, it looks nice enough from the outside but old Welcome don’t go much on appearances.’ He paused to toss something down to the dog, who snapped it up and settled on her scrawny haunches, watching him expectantly. ‘Old Welcome sees beyond what’s obvious.’

He gave Harry such a penetrating look that she was convinced that he saw straight through her carefully applied boot polish grime and too-big coat. She resisted the urge to pull her cap more firmly over her hair. But surely he meant number 48, where the robbery had taken place? ‘I know there’s a bobby on the door,’ she ventured. ‘That ain’t good news for anyone.’

‘Not that one.’ Dobbs jerked his head sideways. ‘The house next door. Been empty for more than ten years, and I ain’t surprised after what happened there.’

Harry frowned. The house did not look empty. Curtains hung at the windows, the steps were scrubbed and the door looked as though it had recently been repainted. ‘What did happen there?’

The old man shrugged. ‘Terrible things. Murder.’

He laced the final word with the kind of dramatic, guttural dread that Harry imagined John Archer would give a great deal to be able to imitate. ‘Murder?’ she echoed. ‘In a fancy place like this?’