Hasty Death by Marion Chesney Page A

The hem of her coat was soaking from melted snow, her face was thinner
and her eyes tired.
    ‘Please sit down,’ ordered Kerridge. ‘Tea?’
    ‘Oh, I would like tea,’ said Rose, ‘and perhaps some biscuits. We are very hungry.’
    Kerridge picked up the phone and ordered tea, biscuits and cakes.
    ‘Now, Lady Rose,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you have found out.
    ‘Miss Levine and I have been working as typists at Drevey’s Bank.’
    ‘Why were you working as a typewriter?’ asked Kerridge, who did not approve of new-fangled words like ‘typist’.
    ‘Because I wished to earn my living.’
    ‘But you are taking employment away from some woman who really needs it,’ said Kerridge.
    ‘On the contrary. Captain Cathcart here arranged the work and it is make-work. Neither Miss Levine nor I are doing anything constructive. But if we could move on from your radical views,
sir . . .’
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘For a short time I was working for a Mr Beveridge as his secretary. While I was in his office, one of the clerks came in and said something about large sums of money being deposited in
Freddy Pomfret’s account.
    ‘Today, because of the snow, the bank was quiet, few having turned up to work. I went upstairs and searched until I found a statement of his account. During the last few months, three
large sums of money were paid into that account. Each for ten thousand pounds.’
    ‘Who gave him the money?’
    ‘Lord Alfred Curtis, Mrs Angela Stockton, and Mrs Jerry Trumpington. I think,’ said Rose triumphantly, ‘that they were being blackmailed.’
    ‘People lose a lot of money at cards,’ Harry pointed out.
    ‘Not for the same amount of money.’
    ‘Lady Rose has a good point there,’ said Kerridge, and Rose flashed Harry a triumphant look. ‘His flat had been turned over, papers thrown everywhere, but his jewellery was
left and fifty pounds in a desk drawer. So what do you know of those three?’
    ‘I met Mrs Jerry last year, Mr Kerridge,’ said Rose, ‘and so did you. Large, gross sort of woman.’
    ‘I remember.’
    ‘I do not know Mrs Stockton or Lord Alfred.’
    ‘I do,’ said Harry. ‘Mrs Stockton is a widow. She married an American millionaire who died soon after they were wed. Lord Alfred Curtis is a willowy young man. One of the
lilies of the field.’
    ‘The whole lot of them are lilies of the field,’ grumbled Kerridge. ‘A hard day’s work would kill ’em.’
    ‘Now, now, Mr Kerridge. You have before you three representatives of the working class and we are very much alive.’
    ‘Sorry. I’ll follow this up, Lady Rose. We shall ask all three why they paid him that particular sum of money.’
    ‘You know,’ said Harry, ‘I bet all three say that Freddy was on his uppers and asked for that specific amount to clear his debts. If you like, I can start asking a few
questions.’
    ‘And I,’ said Rose eagerly.
    They were interrupted by the arrival of the tea-tray. Harry watched as Rose and Daisy enthusiastically munched their way through cakes and biscuits. ‘You are hungry,’ he
said.
    ‘We ate very well last night,’ said Rose, ‘but today we have had neither breakfast nor lunch because of the difficulty in getting to work through the snow and then in getting
here. As I was saying, I can help further with the investigation.’
    Harry suddenly saw a way of restoring Rose to her parents. ‘You cannot do anything while you work at the bank – anything further, I mean. But were you to go back to your rightful
position, you would be able to move freely in society again.’
    ‘Good idea,’ put in Daisy fervently, thinking of a blissful end to days of typewriting and evenings of cheap food.
    ‘Yes, I suppose that would be a good idea,’ said Rose, struck by a sudden vision of long hot baths and clean clothes.
    ‘You have no objection, Mr Kerridge?’
    ‘No, I shall be glad of any help. But do remember, Lady Rose, someone murdered Freddy Pomfret and will be