Lily Smith and the Politician's Past: The Golden Twenties Mysteries, #3

By Autumn Barlow

Two murders, one investigation, no leads – and a web of lies.

Lily Smith is treading a tightrope between maintaining the expected standards of dignity demanded of women in 1920s London and being an effective police constable. Things get more difficult when she's embroiled in the tragic death of a young woman at the house of a prominent politician.

Inspector Mackintosh is misogynistic, lecherous and brash but he is happy to use Lily's connections in the upper class world – while it suits him. She is delighted to be able to investigate but gutted when she's dropped from the case as quickly as she was taken on.

And then the case itself is swept away in favour of a far more important one.

All lives are important to Lily and the death of the young girl weighs heavily on her mind. She can't let it drop. She makes a choice between morality and her career.

Meanwhile her friend Nell is being conned by a smooth businessman and her mother is facing up to her disowned daughter, Bea. Lily wants to help everyone at the same time as solving the case, and it all collides in a desperate night time pursuit across London where she has no choice but to throw herself on the mercy of a known criminal.

To win justice for the dead, what will she have to lose?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Autumn Barlow
• Release date: Jun 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393344483

Book preview

One

London, April 1928

Woman Police Constable Lily Smith heard the panicked shouts and the frantically running footsteps but they sounded as if they came from far away, muffled by cosy blankets and thick cotton sheets. Luxurious mattresses. Pillows and cushions and comforters and quilts and bedspreads. Softness. Deepness. Richness. Comfort...

They were trying to kill the king! shouted a man, his words echoing between the bare corridor walls as he passed the room where she was.

The room. Her room. Her bedroom. Her ... oh, damn and blast it all, none of those things. She was in the woman police’s office which was tucked down a smelly passageway at the back of London’s Vine Street police station. Lily tumbled back into full consciousness again. She was curled in a purloined easy chair that had been dragged out of sight behind a bank of metal filing cabinets and her head was resting on a dingy yellow and red cushion. The chair and the cushion were recent additions to the otherwise austere and uncomfortably utilitarian office.

Their superintendent, Mrs Webster, had not seen these new acquisitions yet. There were going to be ructions when she did.

Lily rubbed her eyes, shoved her feet back into her stiff boots and set about the arduous and lengthy task of lacing them up while she indulged in remembering her pleasant dreams. She had been thinking of a man. Her man, she thought warmly. Ah, George – they had been together last night, dancing, walking in the moonlight, talking, even holding hands in public. She smiled as a hot blush seemed to start in the pit of her belly and spread out rapidly over all of her skin.

Then two things hit her consciousness in quick succession.

The shouts that had intruding into her dreams came back to her mind – They were trying to kill the king!

And she noticed, at last, the small square box of aluminium that was perched on the top of a pile of folders, its black circle pointing directly at where she had been sitting and sleeping. It was a Kodak camera. And there was a note next to it, written in shaky capital letters to disguise their handwriting.

Evidence at last that the heroic WPC Smith CAN do wrong!

SHE GRABBED THE CAMERA and shook it and threw it onto the table in disgust. She’d never used one of them and had no idea how it worked. There was probably no point in destroying it now. She pocketed the note and ran out into the suddenly-silent corridor, past the store rooms and the cleaning cupboards and the lavatories and the washrooms and finally she burst out into the main part of the police station. She went past the men’s offices – she’d have little luck venturing into those domains – and went straight into the main reception area. She collared Station Sergeant Brown as soon as he was free from his current task. As the sad motherly woman left, upset that she could not see her son who was being held in custody, Lily jumped into the place she had vacated, elbowing another member of the public out of the way.

Is the king all right? she demanded.

Brown shrugged his massive shoulders. I am sure that His Majesty is fine and dandy, what with the untold riches and horses and fancy food and unlimited power and all of that. If I do see him, I’ll pass on your concerns. In fact we are dining together tonight, as we do every weeknight.

Ha, ha, very funny. She rubbed again at her face. Maybe the yelling had been part of her dream. Never mind. I thought I heard a shout about something, that’s all.

"Oh, that king."

How many do we have?

He laughed. Sorry, Smith. I shouldn’t play with you but I do enjoy seeing you flustered and confused. It’s rather rare so we have to make the most of it while we can. The King of Italy has been involved in some kind of an attack. Someone put a bomb in a lamp post, according to reports. It went off and they are sure it was intended for him.

But he’s unhurt?

He is. Fifteen other people are dead though. Bit of a scare. It’ll put our chaps on high alert for a bit and it’s not like we’ve anyone to spare for that kind of nonsense.

You sound more annoyed about being on alert than the loss of life or the threat to the king.

Well, it’s not as if it’s our top priority. I’ll have to pull men off some proper jobs just to take part in silly royal duties.

You’re a secret republican!

Brown grinned. Secret?

She waved a hand at him in dismissal and walked morosely back to the women’s office while trying to imagine the absolute storm that would erupt if she declared any anti-monarchist feelings. The few women in the police force were held to far higher standards than everyone else.

And apparently, she thought as she re-entered the office and looked at the camera on the desk, we’re not even allowed to sleep like normal people now.

Really, that was an unfair thought. Normal people did not sleep while they were supposed to be on duty. It was an unusual aberration for her; that was true. She reminded herself that she had to do better. She had been involved in a few cases lately that had taken her rather too close to breaking the rules and she had promised herself that she was going to smarten up. She was being watched by her superiors now and she was running the risk of getting herself sacked. It didn’t matter what she felt on the inside – she had to project a perfectly professional exterior at all times, no matter what.

She made herself a cup of tea and was just settling down to read the list of orders and alerts that had been circulated when her colleague and friend Woman Police Constable Sylvia Hill came in. Her greatcoat was beaded with rain and her soup-bowl hat was dark and soaked.

Yes, Sylvia said before Lily spoke. She hung the heavy coat up on the stand by the door. The wooden pole began to lean alarmingly.

I’m sorry? Yes to what?

You were about to ask if it was still raining. Or whether I wanted a cup of tea. Yes, to both, please. Anyway, April showers make May flowers or however it goes.

Not in London they don’t. They just make muddy streets and dirty hems. Did you hear about the King of Italy?

"Oh, yes, all the newspaper boys are scrabbling over themselves with their latests and exclusives. You look rotten, Lily, like you’ve had no sleep. Oh! Were you out with the gorgeous George last night? Sylvia was a few years older than Lily, in her early thirties, and she sidled onto the wooden chair opposite to where Lily was sitting. She sat forward and spoke in a firmly maternal way. You can tell me everything. I must have all the glorious details."

There is nothing to tell.

There must be. Don’t be such a bluenose. Did you go out dancing? Did you go for a walk? Did you go to the cinema – where it’s all nice and secret and dark ... Are you going to restaurants together or clubs or – or maybe you have finally met his family!

I have not and he’s a bit ... well. I don’t want to meet them, anyway.

That’s not the point, said Sylvia. He should still ask you. I’ve met Tony’s family. They are lovely, which was a relief, I can tell you. You need to see his father so you know what he’s going to be like when he’s older. What if he’s bald but not in a distinguished way but in a horrible way?

Don’t all men go bald? I don’t think they get a choice over how distinguished it all is. But there is a bit of a problem. George doesn’t talk about his father and when he does, he’s rather tetchy and doesn’t say anything positive about him. I’m imagining all manner of things about the poor chap.

Oh dear. You really do need to meet them before things go any further. What if your families don’t get on? That would be awful, too. Sylvia sat back and pressed her lips together with a look of disapproval. Mind you, you don’t seem to be taking this relationship very seriously at all.

It’s early and we’re young – young-ish – and no, you know that I’m not like you with your wedding fantasies. I’m sure you have planned everything about your dress and the wedding breakfast and the guests and even what the weather should be like.

"I don’t have wedding fantasies. I have marriage fantasies and that’s quite, quite different." As if to prove her point, Sylvia started to hunt through the folders on the desk until she pulled out a copy of Woman and Home magazine. She dislodged the camera as she rooted around. What’s this for? she asked, only half-interested, her attention mostly caught by a feature in the magazine about how to feed a family of eight on half a chicken and some leeks.

I was going to ask you about that.

It’s not mine.

Have you been out on the beat all morning?

Yes, why?

Nothing. Lily was about to pull the note from her pocket in her tunic but Sylvia had already moved onto something more interesting. She was tapping the magazine and saying, Now, look at this! They say hemlines are coming down again. Long skirts, oh my goodness! What do you think Mrs Webster will do about our uniforms?

How do you mean? Our hems are already low, Lily said. Everyone hated the frumpy heavy uniform. It was too hot, too heavy, and far too unflattering.

"That’s what I mean. She deliberately wants us to be unfashionable. If hemlines drop then surely she will have to raise our skirts so that we remain completely un-chic."

That wouldn’t be too bad. I should like to be able to run properly.

Oh, God, no. Sweat would make my make-up run.

You’re not wearing any.

I am, but I’m clever enough to do it so it doesn’t show. Mrs Webster would swing for me if she thought I was painted up.

Then what’s the point? Oh, don’t answer that. I’m not interested. We’re on high alert, now, you know, because of that bomb in Milan. Did you know that Brown’s a republican?

Should I know? Didn’t he fight in the war?

He did. But everyone did and that wasn’t about the monarchy.

What was it about?

Now it was Lily’s turn to shrug. "Who knows? I’m really not sure any more. It seems long ago now. You know, on the same topic, here’s a mystery for you. George won’t talk about the war at all."

Didn’t he serve?

He was old enough, just, at the end of it. But he won’t say a thing. Clams up completely.

Maybe he was exempt? Sylvia said, still flicking through the magazine.

"Or, I thought that maybe he had a super-secret spy mission! Lily said, with excitement. Maybe he’s still not allowed to talk about it." George was an apprentice instrument maker. He was kind, gentle and softly-spoken. He was very good husband material, or would be, once he started earning his own money. And yet Lily found she felt far more favourably about him if she imagined he’d been a spy. Suddenly he was rather thrilling.

But Sylvia was dismissive. Oh, no, she said in disdain. You don’t want a man with a past, especially not a secret past like that. That sort of past always comes after you, in the end. She spoke like she was an oracle of ancient wisdom.

Lily just laughed. She knew all about Sylvia and Tony’s past. Sylvia had no grounds to be dishing out the advice. Tony’s secrets had nearly been the undoing of them and their budding relationship.

Anyway– Lily started to say but they both fell silent as someone knocked on the office door. Constable Haldane stuck his head in.

Good morning, ladies. You’ve both got the right idea, hiding in here. It’s pouring down outside.

We’re working, not hiding!

Yes, well, I’m sure you are. He winked at them. Smith, there’s a note come for you from across town. You’re wanted back at Ixworth Place. Immediately.

You read the note? That’s an invasion of privacy.

Haldane passed it over with a cheeky grin. It was only a sheet of paper folded in two and he didn’t even bother to comment. He withdrew and then stuck his head back in.

"Oh, and did you hear about the King of Italy? But I suppose it won’t affect you two. All our leave is cancelled while our king is still in London. God might save the King but we do the donkey work. Take care."

He disappeared again.

Lily unfolded the paper. Mrs White wants to see me.

Mrs White? Why?

I don’t know. She showed the note to Sylvia. Mrs White was the welfare officer and had been part of the police force for decades, even before they allowed women to join as attested officers. She refused any rank and wore no uniform and called herself a civil servant; she was older than dirt and cleverer than a monkey. "I had best go. Do you think it’s properly urgent? They might let me take a cab. How immediate is immediately?"

Not that immediate. Can’t imagine they’ll let you have a cab on expenses. You’re going to get wet, I’m afraid.

Lily hauled her greatcoat on, and set out with trepidation and excitement. She laughed to herself at Sylvia’s aversion to a man with a secret past. What could possibly be more thrilling? She wished George would talk about it. Maybe it would make up for the current lack of excitement in her own life.

Two

Lily left Vine Street Station and dashed out into the teeming, sodden streets of central London. Sylvia and Lily were the two female constables assigned to C Division or St James’s which covered both Soho and Mayfair. It was a vibrant and busy area where the richest and poorest folk in the country rubbed shoulders and it was a hard task to spot the worst criminals out of all of them.

Not that Lily and Sylvia were supposed to have much to do with real crime. Their remit was to deal with women and children and to take a firmly matronly but nurturing attitude to their charges. Their bread and butter cases were mostly missing persons – young girls who ran away to London to seek their fortunes and almost inevitably ended up working on the streets or in backstreet brothels. Then there were constant cases of abuse, neglect, violence in the home and so on. The women police had to handle these cases with authority and knowledge while retaining their feminine dignity and elegance in the eyes of the public.

That could often be a challenge.

Lily had two miles to go and at a brisk walking pace she could cover that in a little over half an hour. The rain was easing off and she marched herself south, looking forward to her summons. She hoped it would be something a little different to break up the humdrum of everyday life. She reached the tall cream building at the corner of Ixworth Place just as the sun emerged and she even fancied she could hear a blackbird singing somewhere. The elegant building was home to the offices of Mrs White and also housed many of the single women police constables in comfortable, individual rooms. Lily’s own bedroom was up on the first floor.

As she ran up the wide steps, she nearly collided with WPC Rosamund Starkey who was dressed even more precisely and smartly than usual. Lily called a hallo! but Rosamund didn’t even slow down to wave back. She was almost marching rather than walking, her head held high. She was in her uniform which was pressed into razor-sharp points, with gleaming buckles and buttons, and her boots were polished into mirrors.

Lily didn’t have time to speculate about what was going on. She was out to impress somebody, that was for sure. Rosamund was an excellent young police constable but she had been growing more and more serious lately. Lily didn’t know why but no doubt she’d be able to catch up on the gossip later. She headed on inside to find Mrs White waiting for her in the welfare office.

Mrs White was not alone. There was a rigidly starched woman in a dark suit, standing so upright Lily wondered if she were still corseted like her mama’s generation, and alongside her was a sullen-looking young girl of about fifteen or sixteen years old. She thought she recognised the suited woman from her dealings with runaways, and was proved correct when she was introduced as Mrs Baxter from the nearest orphanage. They had met before but only ever at Mrs Baxter’s workplace.

It didn’t look as if the young girl was going to get introduced so Lily said, smiling at her, And who is this?

Mrs Baxter was surprised. Oh? This is Teresa. She elbowed the young woman. Be polite, now.

How do you do, Teresa said while making a steady eye contact with Lily. Her eyes were very green and her skin very fair, and she certainly wasn’t remotely cowed by being in the presence of the police. Her accent was from the London streets but there was a slight polish to it.

Mrs White said, Now, Smith, Mrs Baxter is hoping for our help in placing this little lost girl in a suitable situation.

Oh? Lily didn’t like to point out that it wasn’t their job to be an employment agency.

Mrs White knew what her oh? meant. She said, There is a little more to it than meets this eye. This young girl is, according to Mrs Baxter, in very real danger of straying from the straight and narrow. She has already caused your establishment a great deal of trouble, is that correct, Mrs Baxter?

Mrs Baxter nodded with a sad and serious expression. Lily watched Teresa, who appeared to be blithely unconcerned at the allegations. Mrs Baxter said, She has. We could have involved the police but we have chosen not to do so – yet.

Well, we believe in second chances, said Mrs White. "As she is not yet ruined, and she is young enough to be set to rights, we will help – crime prevention is our job as much as anything else. This girl needs to find a place which will take her away from certain other malign influences at the orphanage. Mrs Baxter has already been to the usual agencies – am I right?"

Mrs Baxter nodded. Entirely correct, Mrs White. She has had a number of enquiries and offers but for various reasons we have not been able to take them up on those offers. In desperation I called in here as we passed by. I remember how good you were to that poor girl Evelyn and how well you treated her, in spite of her past, and how you found that placement for her at the hospital.

It was a common enough part of their job, it was true, although not usually done so openly as this. The women police took in the waifs and strays and rather than condemn them to carry the burden of a criminal record for the rest of their lives, if the girl was deemed salvageable she would be found employment, even if it were nothing more than scrubbing ward floors in a hospital. In such a time of high unemployment, most of the girls were grateful, especially if they had some bad experiences on the street to reflect upon.

Yet to Lily’s mind, there seemed to be a lot here that Mrs Baxter wasn’t telling them. Lily expected that Mrs White would have asked all the relevant questions. She had to trust to Mrs White’s considerable experience.

And you had someone in mind, yes? Mrs White said to Mrs Baxter.

Ah – yes. Well, not quite. It is only that I met a gentleman last week who mentioned that his wife was looking for a young girl to train up as a maid, of a personal sort.

A lady’s maid?

I suppose so. Or some kind of companion. Who has the full retinue of servants these days? They all have to take on the role of many and one never quite knows what label to affix to them. The gentleman in question is a man of some renown – the politician, Mr Arthur Ashford – and he said quite distinctly that he hoped to be able to use his considerable influence and money to give an opportunity to a troubled young woman and bring her up in the right way. Mrs Baxter dropped her voice and spoke confidentially. "If I am to be perfectly honest with you, the poor wife of Mr Ashford is herself childless and longs, I think, for a mouldable daughter to bring up as her own. I fancy she refused to adopt a child yet her lack of true womanhood is eating her away. It is every woman’s ultimate calling, is it not? So Mr Ashford came up with this plan and it seems that