Sick of Shadows by M. C. Beaton

Blenkinsop listened as well. “Very good,” she said at last. “They will sing for me. Fetch them out.”
    What would Kerridge say to this development? wondered Bert. But Lady Blenkinsop, for all her airs and grand house, was only the widow of an ironmaster who had bought his title. And she never went to London.
    The crowd waited until Rose and Daisy came out. There was a polite spattering of applause.
    “Come here!” barked Lady Blenkinsop.
    By the light of the carriage lamps, Rose saw a very small, sour-looking woman dressed in widow’s weeds.
    Daisy suddenly wished Rose would look, well, more messy. Even in a plain white blouse and skirt, Rose looked impeccable and she had dressed her hair fashionably.
    Daisy curtsied but Rose held herself ramrod-stiff and demanded in glacial tones, “Yes?”
    “Yes, what, my girl? I have a title.”
    “What do you want?” asked Rose.
    “I want you and the other one to come and sing for me tomorrow afternoon.”
    “I am afraid we are otherwise engaged,” said Rose. “Good evening to you. Come, Daisy.”
    Rose turned on her heel and strode back into the house.
    “That uppity little minx needs a taste of the birch,” fumed Lady Blenkinsop. “Drive on.”

    Two days later, Bert was summoned by the police commissioner in York. Lady Blenkinsop had accused him of insolence.
    “I will go with you,” said Rose.
    “You’ll make matters worse,” groaned Bert.
    Sally returned after seeing Bert off at the station. “Do not worry,” said Rose. “If your husband is dismissed, then my father will support him.”
    The policeman’s wife whipped round. “And you think that’ll solve the problem, lass? My Bert’s proud of his job. You’ve brought nothing but trouble.”

    “We must do something,” whispered Daisy. “If only we could phone the captain.”
    “I could do that,” said Rose. “I know we were told not to phone or write but I could pretend to be his cousin and talk in a sort of code. We must move quickly. We can’t use the telephone in the police station or the girl in the exchange might tell Bert. I know, we’ll get to Plomley. I’ll just tell Sally we’re going out for a walk. I do find all this use of first names rather peculiar, but Bert said it makes us sound more like family.”
    They hitched a lift to Plomley on a farm cart.
    It was an old-fashioned wooden telephone kiosk in Plomley, not one of the new boxes.
    Rose got through to the operator and gave her Harry’s number, shovelled the required pennies into the slot and waited.
    Let him be there, she silently prayed. Please let him be there.
    Ailsa Bridge answered the phone. Rose asked to speak to the captain. “Who is calling?” asked Ailsa.
    Rose thought quickly. “His cousin, Miss Shalott.”
    Harry came on the line. “This is your cousin, Miss Shalott,” said Rose quickly. “Our uncle Bert is in trouble again, the old rip. The police commissioner in York has summoned him this morning. He must have been drunk and breaking windows again. Added to that, a certain Lady Blenkinsop has put in a complaint against poor old Uncle because she says I was rude to her and all because she wanted me to sing at her house, just like a common chorus girl. Too, too sickening. Do help Uncle Bert, please.”
    “Where are you telephoning from?”
    “Such a quaint little wooden kiosk. You know Mama will not let me use the telephone and she says that Uncle Bert should be left to his own devices.”
    “I’ll deal with it right away. Are you well?”
    “Oh, yes, very well. Thank you.”
    Rose replaced the receiver. “Let’s hope he gets to the commissioner in York in time, Daisy.”

    Bert stared miserably at his shiny regulation boots as he sat outside the commissioner’s office. He would do anything to avoid losing his job. But Kerridge had sworn him to secrecy.
    At last a police officer emerged from the commissioner’s office and said, “Go in now.”
    Bert, with his helmet tucked underneath his arm, went