Belle - Lesley Pearse [26]
‘We can start by looking in the house book,’ Mog said. ‘I know they all put false names, but Noah weren’t what you’d call a regular gaming man, he might have put his real address.’
Chapter Six
A rapping at his door penetrated Noah’s deep slumber and made him open his eyes cautiously. He couldn’t see anything; the heavy curtains were drawn. ‘What is it?’ he called out feebly, for he’d drunk a great deal the previous night.
‘There’s a lady to see you,’ Mrs Dumas, his landlady, called back. ‘She said she was sorry to call so early, but she wanted to catch you afore you went to work.’
‘I haven’t got any work today,’ Noah murmured. ‘What’s this in connection with?’ he asked in a louder voice.
‘She said it was Millie.’
Noah was suddenly wide awake. He knew only one Millie, and although he couldn’t imagine why anyone would be calling on him here about her, he was intrigued. ‘I’ll be right down,’ he called as he threw back the bedcovers.
Noah Bayliss was thirty-one, unmarried and living a somewhat precarious life financially because although he was both a freelance journalist and an investigator for an insurance company, neither paid very much or even offered work on a regular basis. Journalism was Noah’s real love; he dreamed constantly of getting the big scoop, so that The Times would offer him a permanent position on their staff. Often he projected that daydream even further to becoming editor of the paper. But to his disappointment he was never sent to cover exciting or important news stories like a sensational trial or an inquest. Mostly he only got ordered to report on very dull council meetings, or other news stories that would be given less than an inch of space at the back of the paper.
Even claiming he was an investigator for insurance companies was something of an exaggeration. Mostly he was just sent along to see claimants in their own home and report back anything which could be suspicious. He usually had to call after a death to see the grieving widow or widower. He hadn’t as yet met anyone where there was the slightest whiff of poison, a push down the stairs or anything which might point to the death being other than a natural one, though he couldn’t help but hope that one day he might.
He washed his face in cold water from the jug on the washstand, slipped on a clean shirt and rescued his trousers from the floor where he’d dropped them the previous night. He was fortunate in his lodgings in that Mrs Dumas was a widow who wanted company and something to do, rather than just money. Her terraced house in Percy Street, just off Tottenham Court Road, was very clean and comfortable, and she treated her three lodgers almost like members of her own family. Noah appreciated this, so he took it upon himself to do any small maintenance jobs, and always filled the coal buckets each day for her. As he ran lightly down the stairs he hoped that Mrs Dumas would keep her distance from the caller; he wouldn’t want her to know he’d been to a brothel.
‘Miss Davis is in the parlour,’ she said as he reached the hall. She was a tiny little woman of well over sixty, reminding Noah of a little bird with her sharply pointed nose and bright and beady eyes. She was standing by the door which led through to the kitchen, wearing the white frilly apron she always put over her dress in the mornings. ‘Come on into the kitchen when you’ve finished and I’ll make you breakfast,’ she said, her face alight with curiosity.
The name Miss Davis meant nothing to Noah, but as he walked into the parlour, he recognized the slight woman in a black coat and rather severe cloche hat as the maid at Annie’s Place, whom Millie had called Mog.
‘I’m sorry to call so early, Mr Bayliss,’ she said, standing up and offering her hand. ‘I think you know where I’m from.’
Noah nodded and shook her hand. ‘My landlady mentioned Millie.’
‘I’m sure you heard the terrible news about her murder?’ Mog said.
Noah reeled back in shock. ‘Murder?’ he gasped.
‘Oh dear.’ The woman frowned and took a step nearer to him, reaching out her hand to touch his arm