The China Governess Read online

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Margery Allingham

  Title Page

  Foreword: The Turk Street Mile

  1 The Elopers

  2 Dangerous Lady

  3 Miss Thyrza’s Chair

  4 ‘Above at a Window’

  5 Off the Record

  6 Justifiably Angry Young Man

  7 Ebbfield Interlude

  8 The Well House

  9 The Stranger

  10 Conference in the Morning

  11 The Councillor

  12 The Cobbler’s Shop

  13 ‘The Top of the Police’

  14 Kitchen Business

  15 The Beanspiller

  16 Indictment

  17 The Boy in the Corner

  18 Night-cap

  19 Meeting Point

  20 Eye Witness

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Appearance and reality are not always the same.

  Timothy Kinnit is rich, handsome and well-bred. He seems to have everything. Then, on the eve of his elopement, he learns that he was adopted, and he is desperate to know who he really is. Someone seems no less keen to stop him finding out. Violence, deception and death bedevil the post-war housing estate that has grown from the ashes of the notorious Turk Street Mile, and the shadow of a long-forgotten murder hangs over it all – until Luke and Campion are finally able to dispel the darkness.

  About the Author

  Margery Allingham was born in London in 1904. She attended the Perse School in Cambridge before returning to London to the Regent Street Polytechnic. Her father – author H. J. Allingham – encouraged her to write, and was delighted when she contributed to her aunt’s cinematic magazine, The Picture Show, at the age of eight.

  Her first novel was published when she was seventeen. In 1928 she published her first detective story, The White Cottage Mystery, which had been serialised in the Daily Express. The following year, in The Crime at Black Dudley, she introduced the character who was to become the hallmark of her writing – Albert Campion. Her novels heralded the more sophisticated suspense genre: characterised by her intuitive intelligence, extraordinary energy and accurate observation, they vary from the grave to the openly satirical, whilst never losing sight of the basic rules of the classic detective tale. Famous for her London thrillers, she has been compared to Dickens in her evocation of the city’s shady underworld.

  In 1927 she married the artist, journalist and editor Philip Youngman Carter. They divided their time between their Bloomsbury flat and an old house in the village of Tolleshunt D’Arcy in Essex. Margery Allingham died in 1966.

  ALSO BY MARGERY ALLINGHAM

  The Crime at Black Dudley

  Mystery Mile

  Look to the Lady

  Police at the Funeral

  Sweet Danger

  Death of a Ghost

  Dancers in Mourning

  Flowers for the Judge

  The Case of the Late Pig

  Mr Campion and Others

  The Fashion in Shrouds

  Black Plumes

  Coroner’s Pidgin

  Traitor’s Purse

  The Casebook of Mr Campion

  More Work for the Undertaker

  The Tiger in the Smoke

  The Beckoning Lady

  Hide My Eyes

  Crime and Mr Campion

  The Mind Readers

  A Cargo of Eagles

  The Return of Mr Campion

  Mr Campion’s Quarry

  Mr Campion’s Lucky Day

  None of the characters in this book is a portrait of a living person

  The China Governess

  Margery Allingham

  Why each atom knows its own,

  How in spite of woe and death

  Gay is life and sweet is breath

  Robert Bridges

  FOREWORD

  The Turk Street Mile

  ‘IT WAS CALLED the wickedest street in London and the entrance was just here. I imagine the mouth of the road lay between this lamp standard and the second from the next down there.’

  In the cold darkness of the early spring night the Chief Detective-Inspector of the area was talking like a guide-book with sly, proprietorial satisfaction. He was a neat, pink man whose name was Munday and he was more like a civil servant than a police officer. His companion, who had just followed him out of the black chauffeur-driven police car drawn up against the kerb, straightened himself and stood looking at the shadowy scene before him without speaking.

  They were standing in the midst of the East End on a new pavement flanking a low wall beyond which, apart from a single vast building, there appeared to be a great deal of nothing at all in a half circle perhaps a quarter of a mile across. The great fleece which is London, clotted and matted and black with time and smoke, possesses here and there many similar bald spots. They are cleared war-damage scars in various stages of reclamation. Around the edges of this particular site the network of small streets was bright and the arterial road by which they stood was a gleaming way bathed in orange light, but inside the half circle, despite the lighted windows of the building, it was sufficiently dark for the red glow which always hangs over the city at night to appear very deep in colour.

  ‘The Turk Street Mile has gone now, anyway,’ Munday went on. ‘A serious trouble spot for three hundred years, wiped out utterly and for ever in a single night by four landmines and a sprinkling of incendiaries in the first raid on London, twenty years ago.’

  The other man was still silent, which was something of a phenomenon. Superintendent Charles Luke was not as a rule at a loss for words. He was very tall but his back and shoulder muscles were so heavy that he appeared shorter and there was a hint of the traditional gangster in his appearance, especially now as he stood with his hands in his trousers pockets, the skirts of his light tweed overcoat bunched behind him and his soft hat pulled down over his dark face. The legacy of the last few years which included promotion, marriage, fatherhood, widowerhood and the Police Medal, had had remarkably little outward effect upon him. His shorn curls were as black as ever and he could still pump out energy like a power station, but there was a new awareness in his sharp eyes which indicated that he had lived and grown.

  ‘I understand that the district was considered a sort of sanctuary,’ the Chief was saying. ‘An Alsatia like the ancient one behind the Strand, or Saffron Hill before the First World War. They tell me there was a recognized swag-market down here.’

  Luke drew a long hand out of his pocket and pointed to a thin spire far away in the rusty sky. ‘That’s St. Botolph’s,’ he said. ‘Take a line from there to the old gasometer on the canal at the back of the cinema over there and you won’t be far wrong. The Mile was a narrow winding street and in places the top floors of the buildings almost touched. Right in the middle there was a valley with very steep sides. The road dipped like a wall and went up again. That’s why there was no through traffic to clear it. The surface hadn’t been altered for generations; round cobbles. It was like walking over cannon balls.’ Now that he had recovered from his first astonishment at the sight of the new building which was not what he had expected, he was talking with his usual fierce enthusiasm and as usual painting in details with his hands.

  ‘When you turned into The Mile from this end the first thing you saw was the biggest pawnshop you ever clapped eyes on and opposite, all convenient, was the Scimitar. That was a huge gin palace, built on what you might call oriental lines. The street stalls ran down both sides of the way to the hill and every other one of them sported a strictly illegal crown-and-anchor board. The locals played all day. Early in
the morning and late at night by naptha flares. Farther on, round the dip, was the residential quarter. I don’t know if that’s the term. People lived in caves. There’s no other word for them. Have you ever seen a beam eaten to a sponge by beetles? Magnify it and dress the beetles in a rag or two and that’s about the picture. I went right through it once for a dare when I was about ten. My mother didn’t get me completely clean for a month.’ He laughed. ‘Oh, The Mile was wicked enough in a way, depending on what you mean.’ He turned back to the scene before him and the enormous new block of council dwellings. The design was some way after Corbusier but the block was built up on plinths and resembled an Atlantic liner swimming diagonally across the site.

  ‘What the devil have you got there?’ he inquired. ‘A prehistoric “wot-o-saurus”?’

  ‘It’s a remarkable building.’ Munday was earnest. ‘In daylight it takes your breath away. It’s as sleek as a spaceship, there’s not a hair out of place on it. It’s the reason why I’ve had to disturb you tonight. Mr. Cornish felt Headquarters must be notified at once.’

  ‘Ah, he’s the Councillor, is he? The one who’s going to get the knighthood for this lot?’

  ‘I don’t know about that, sir.’ The Chief was wooden. ‘I know he’s got to raise the money to build five more of these.’

  Luke sniffed and surveyed the monster, scored with sun balconies and pitted with neat rows of windows, each one shrouded with pastel colours, blue, pink, lilac, biscuit and lime. A sudden grin spread over his dark cockney face.

  ‘Got the original families in there, Chief Inspector?’ he inquired.

  Munday gave him a steady glance.

  ‘Not exactly, sir. That’s some of tonight’s story. I’m given to understand that although it’s the primary object of all these big improvement schemes to rehouse the portion of the populace which has been rendered homeless by enemy action, twenty years is a very long time. The new buildings have had to be financed in the ordinary way and the outlay has got to be recovered, so the tendency has been to allot these very exceptional new apartments – they really are quite impressive, Superintendent – to those people who have proved themselves first-class tenants in the temporary accommodation which was rustled up for them just after the war, prefabs and suchlike.’

  He came to an uneasy pause and Luke burst out laughing.

  ‘I shan’t be asking any questions in Parliament, Chief. You don’t have to explain anything away to me. You’ve got a handpicked lot here, have you? And that’s why this present spot of bother which is only ‘wilful damage’ has so upset the dovecotes? I see. Come on.’

  They set off together down the partially constructed concrete ramp. ‘Some of these local government big boys are remarkably like the old-time squires, feudal old baskets!’ he remarked. ‘“Don’t hang your bedding out of the window”, “Teach the kids to say please, damn them” and “No Singing except in the Bath”. I don’t like it in a landlord myself. Someone has got irritated by it perhaps? Eh?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Munday shrugged his shoulders. ‘My information is that the couple whose home has been wrecked are a sort of show pair. The old boy is finishing his time at the Alandel Branch factory down the road and he’s reputed not to have an enemy in the world. The same thing goes for the old lady who is his second wife. I believe there’s a temporary lodger, a skilled worker from Alandel’s. They got permission to take him in for six weeks’ trial and the rent was properly adjusted, so it can’t be jealousy on the part of the neighbours. The damage appears to be remarkable and the feeling is that it may be directed against the building itself, the Council that is, and not the tenants at all.’

  ‘Could be. Who have you got out here?’

  ‘A good man, Sergeant Stockwell. I was speaking to him on the phone just before we came out. He thinks it must be the work of a small gang. Possibly juveniles. He doesn’t like the look of it but he doesn’t see what can be done before morning. However, Mr. Cornish —’ He let the rest of the sentence remain unspoken.

  ‘He wants the top brass, does he.’ Luke was good tempered but fierce. ‘Here it is then. Both of it. We’ll go and give him a toot.’

  His amused, contemptuous mood persisted as they entered the aluminium-lined passenger elevator which carried them up to the top floor. The convenience and neatness impressed him but the termite-hill architecture made him uneasy.

  ‘It’s all very quiet. What’s everybody doing behind the fancy drapery?’ he muttered, the attempt to muffle his remarkably resonant voice failing disastrously.

  ‘The trouble is on the other side of the building, sir. Top floor. All the doors are on that service side.’ Munday sounded defensive. ‘It’s not quite like a street. A lot can happen without the neighbours knowing.’

  Luke opened his mouth to say something acid but at that moment they arrived and he stepped out of the silver box to be confronted by a prospect of his beloved city which he had never seen before.

  He stood transfixed before the unaccustomed view of London at night time, a vast panorama which reminded him not so much of the aerial photographs of today but rather of some wood engravings far off and magical, in a printshop in his childhood. They dated from the previous century and were coarsely printed on tinted paper, with tinsel outlining the design. They had been intended as backcloths for toy theatres and were wildly ambitious. The Fall of Rome was included, several battlefields, and even Hell itself complete with steaming lakes and cauldrons of coloured fire. Now to Luke’s amazed delight he saw the same glorious jumble of grandeur and mystery spread out below him. He saw the chains and whorls of the street lamps, the ragged silver sash of the river and all the spires and domes and chimney-pots, outlined with a sorcerer’s red fire, smudging against the misty sky. It made his heart move in his side.

  Munday touched his sleeve. ‘This way, Mr. Luke.’

  He turned his head abruptly and caught sight of a small crowd at the far end of the balcony. Here again the lighting was dramatic and worthy of the view.

  The two open doorways were bright oblongs in the dusk and the shafts from them created a barrier between the crowd and a uniformed man on guard.

  As they came forward a square figure in a tight suit advanced to meet them. He stepped delicately like a boxer and everything about him proclaimed that he was Sergeant Stockwell, the inevitable ‘good man in charge’. Luke gave him a long experienced stare and moved close to Munday so that he could hear the murmured report. It was made with the mixture of smugness and efficiency he expected but there was an undercurrent of outrage which made him raise his eyebrows.

  ‘The Councillor, that’s Mr. Cornish, has taken the old boy who owns the wrecked apartment in to the neighbours next door to talk to him,’ Stockwell said. ‘His name is Len Lucey. He’s a fitter and a good old craftsman with nothing known against him. Before the war he lived on the edge of this estate with his first wife who kept a tobacco and confectionery business – very small. She was killed in the big Blitz. He then married a woman from North London and he had to live over there, travelling across the city to work every day, until he was granted this new first-class flat. His second wife has made a little palace of it by all accounts and that’s some of the trouble. She had a sort of fit when she came in and saw the damage. There’s a neighbour with her but I’ve sent for an ambulance. I shouldn’t be surprised if she never comes right out of it. I don’t blame her,’ he added gravely. ‘The state of the room shook me. I thought at first it was one of the local delinquent mobs but now I’m not so sure. There seems to be almost too much work in it for them, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘It’s the farther doorway, I take it?’ Luke inquired. ‘And the Councillor and the old boy are in the nearest one, is that right?’

  ‘Yessir. The first flat belongs to a much younger couple called Headley. He’s a master baker and works at the meat pie factory in Munster Street. He and his wife are nothing to do with this business and they’ve got the wind up. They’re not being unfriendly but
they don’t want a dose of the same medicine. They’ve already approached me on the quiet to get everybody out if I can.’

  ‘But they don’t want to offend the old squire, eh?’ Luke was chuckling with his own brand of savagery. ‘Well, well. Let’s hope for everybody’s sake the poor old lady hasn’t taken things too hard or we’ll all be in the Sunday newspapers and that won’t help anybody get a title, will it?’

  Munday started to speak but thought better of it. Stepping forward, he led the way past the saluting constable to the first of the open doorways. There he hesitated a moment, took off his hat politely and walked in, Luke behind him.

  The tiny white-painted vestibule which was merely a nest of doors, was as neat a pack as an orange. Any addition, even a rolled umbrella would have been an embarrassment. The two large men were, physically speaking, an insufferable intrusion; they were both aware of it as they stood one behind the other peering into the small sitting-room in which there were already four people, two different kinds of wallpaper, a television set with the picture going and the sound turned off, a magnificent indiarubber plant, a very expensive, very well kept lounge-dining-room suite of contemporary furniture of the ‘bundle and peg’ variety, three large framed flowerprints and a fierce wrought-iron candelabra. So much high-powered professional ‘design’ had gone into the apartment that there was no place for anything else and the present drama was suffocating.

  For once in his life Luke was taken completely out of his stride. The owners of the flat, large pale young people whose acute discomfort was the dominant thing about them, huddled in a corner, she in an arm-chair and he behind it, occupying at least a quarter of the floor space. The dazed Len Lucey, old and shaking, his very thin neck sticking out pathetically from an extremely white collar, sat at the dining-room table on a spidery chair while before him was a person who had made much larger rooms seem small, a living flame of a man, as passionate and fanatical as Luke himself.