There were metal chambers at one end of the room. “Refrigerated,” the mortuary assistant said proudly. “They’re the latest, we’ve only just installed them.” He seemed disappointed that they were not more impressed. Gwendolen was chilled by the idea of ending up in one of those icy chambers, shut away in the cold and dark.
One of the chambers was unlocked by the attendant and a large tray was pulled out. The body on the tray was covered by a sheet and the attendant pulled it back to reveal the face of a young girl. Oh, the pity of it, Gwendolen thought. She could understand men killing each other in battle, they were under orders, they might even believe in the cause they were fighting for, but purposefully to take a young life and snuff it out like a candle for some perverse gratification defied her understanding.
“All right, Miss Kelling?” Frobisher asked, an expression of grave concern on his face. He was a good person, she thought. A good man. With a wife.
“Yes, thank you,” she said and gave him the gift of a faint smile. Few smiled in this place, she thought.
“This the one, guv?”
“Yes,” Frobisher said. “Her name is Wilhelmina Carter.” She had been claimed, he told the attendant—he was to make sure that he kept hold of her until her mother made arrangements for her burial. “Do not send her on,” he said sternly, “do you understand?”
“Yes, sir, keep her on ice for her ma.”
* * *
—
Gwendolen told the cabbie to drop her in the West End, feeling a compelling need to walk, to be amongst the crowds who knew nothing of the dank inside of a public mortuary or the evil of the netherworld beneath their feet.
Frobisher helped her out of the cab and she said, “Let’s be friends, not enemies, Inspector.”
“Of course, Miss Kelling. I wish for nothing less.”
They shook hands and she said, “Keep me informed. About Maddox.” She felt an unexpected rush of affection towards him. She was merciful. He had given Minnie Carter back her name, so she gave him his. “Goodbye, John.” An au revoir perhaps, rather than an adieu.
Death by Water
Gertie thought that The Co-Optimists was the best thing she had ever seen. As a veteran of the stage herself, Freda judged it to be on the thin side, but she didn’t spoil Gertie’s enthusiasm by saying as much. When Cherry Ames came on the stage she gave Gertie a little nudge and said, “That’s my friend,” which impressed Gertie no end. Freda thought that if she’d had a chance at Cherry’s part she would have done a much better job of it, but when the cast took their curtain call she whooped and whistled generously as Cherry took her bow, so much so that Cherry looked rather alarmed and tried to peer into the audience to see who was making all the racket.
Gertie, rather star-struck, insisted that they go round to the stage door to see the cast leaving. They’d hadn’t quite reached their goal when Freda spotted Cherry already rushing out, still in her stage make-up and wearing a pricey-looking fur stole. She made straight for a car that was parked outside and a man in evening dress who was holding the car door open for her. He was old enough to be her grandfather, except that he definitely didn’t kiss her like a grandfather would, not that Freda had ever had a grandfather. This must be the “investor” that she’d had to have dinner with, Freda guessed. She wondered how often Cherry was expected to have dinner with people. With men. She felt an unexpected rush of gratitude towards Nellie Coker. She had given her a job and hadn’t demanded a payment for it.
“Looks like your friend’s got herself a sugar daddy,” Gertie said. Freda had never heard that term before but she could take a good guess at what it meant. “You didn’t say hello to her,” Gertie added.
“No, I don’t suppose I did.”
“Well, anyway, I’m off,” Gertie said. She had a place of her own, she said, Freda must visit. “I will,” Freda said, and wondered if she would. She walked with Gertie as far as Seven Dials, where they hugged goodbye and Freda said, “Be careful,” and Gertie said, “You too.”
* * *
—
It was so unexpected that Freda didn’t have a second to reflect on it. One minute she was cutting through Tower Court, thinking about what she was going to have for her supper before going to the Sphinx （eggs and chips, she’d just decided）， and the next minute she felt a tremendous punch to the side of her head and she crumpled onto the cobbles.
The blow had rendered her helpless, yet she was only too aware that she was being dragged along by someone. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t cry for help, and felt horribly sick. Her hearing was affected, too, but she caught a muffled female voice asking, “Is the girl all right?” and the man who was dragging her picked her up in his arms and in the competent voice of authority said, “She passed out in the street. A dope fiend, I’m afraid. I’ll see she gets to a hospital.”