Willoughby, who was watching both of them closely, said, “And what’s your relation to Molly here?”
“She’s the niece of one of my cousins who lives in the country. Molly is staying with me for a bit.”
Willoughby, eyeing Molly, said, “May I ask why you’re in London?”
Molly said quickly, “There is a private girls’ school here that my mother is thinking of sending me to.”
“Which one?”
“St. Elspeth’s.”
“What, in Chelsea?”
“That’s the one.” Molly had selected that one because before she had left for the country, it had been arranged that she would attend there. “Do you know it?”
“I know it costs a packet. Chief Constable Quigley’s granddaughter goes there. So your family must have money,” he added.
“Well, my maternal grandfather did rather well in... hogs... and crops before the war. And my other grandfather was quite keen on manufacturing things. And my mother considers education to be the cornerstone of one’s life. Indeed I hope to become a doctor one day.”
“You mean a nurse,” corrected Willoughby.
“Oh, yes, no doubt that’s what I meant,” said Molly pleasantly.
“So you don’t know this lad, Charlie Matters?”
“I only arrived in London a short time ago. I haven’t had a chance to really meet anyone.”
“R-right,” said Willoughby, who was still looking suspiciously at both of them. “How about another lad named Lonzo Rossi? Here’s a picture of him.” He showed it to Molly.
Molly recognized the name from when Charlie had told her that was the boy who had stolen his book. But she shook her head at the photograph. “I’ve never seen him,” she said quite truthfully. “Who is he?”
“One of Matters’s mates.” He turned to Oliver. “I gave you a description of the boy. If you see him, ring me straightaway at this number.” Willoughby handed him a card.
“Certainly, Detective Inspector. Certainly.”
Willoughby walked off, but looked back once. Oliver waved to him. After he was gone, they went into the shop.
Molly said to Oliver, “So that’s why Charlie has been so miserable. It was his friend who was killed.”
“And his other mate obviously talked to the police.”
“Lonzo Rossi.”
Oliver nodded. “Yes. He’s in jail right this moment, or so Willoughby told me. They caught him when he was trying to enlist in the army.”
“Charlie mentioned Lonzo to me before. Lonzo stole the book you gave Charlie.”
“I see.”
“What will the charges be?” asked Molly fearfully.
“He mentioned rather a whole assortment, I’m afraid. Perverting the course of justice, wasting police time, but the more serious ones were contributing to the death of a constable, attempted burglary, and evading arrest. Inspector Willoughby said it would mean many years in prison.”
Molly looked horrified. “That’s preposterous. Charlie’s only a boy.”
“Nevertheless, the law says otherwise, I’m afraid, since both boys are in their teens. And it’s wartime now and apparently different rules apply.”
“And yet you lied to the inspector, as did I,” pointed out Molly.
“I feel quite guilty having involved you in it. But I didn’t want to give the game away.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Oliver. I would never have done anything to betray Charlie.”
“But the inspector is clearly suspicious.”
“Where is Charlie?” she asked.
“Like you, he left to find gainful employment. I really wish he wouldn’t feel as if he had to do that. I can provide for you both.”
“Well, I’ve just been hired as a nurse auxiliary.”
“Really? Where?”
“The Covent Garden Medical Clinic.”
“Really? As an air warden, I’ve often taken injured people there. They’re quite good.”
“Now, I need you to write a letter, as my father, to give me permission to do so.”
“See here, Molly, do you really think that’s necessary? I can—”
“It pays four pounds a week.”
Oliver gaped. “Four pounds? A week? Are you serious?”
“And they provide meals as well.”
Oliver put a finger to his lips and glanced at the till, where there was less than twenty quid left after paying assorted bills. “Well, um, if you’re quite sure.”
“I am. But, Mr. Oliver, we need to make absolutely certain that Charlie and Inspector Willoughby never meet.”
Revealed
First came the boat, or schooner, or whatever the man called it. What Charlie called it was filthy and the man paid him and other lads half a crown each to shovel things off it and let them fall into the Thames to join the other sludge.
After that Charlie ate an apple that happened to tumble off a stand outside a shop with a bit of a nudge from him. Then he collected horse manure from the hauling wagons and carried it in burlap bags to community garden allotments for fertilizer. That brought a few more shillings. And he later received a crown from a grateful father with two small children in exchange for Charlie’s crawling through the rubble of their bombed-out house to find a puppy half buried under stone and dirt. The thing was very much alive and miraculously uninjured. It was so happy to be rescued that it gave Charlie a slew of licks on the nose and clutched tightly to him, clearly unwilling to be alone again. Charlie had never had a pet and was reluctant to give it up until he saw how thrilled the dog was to be reunited with its family. He watched them carry it off, all now happy as could be despite no longer having a home.
Charlie rinsed his face, hands, and clothes at a tap, and followed up the puppy rescue by nicking a pair of handsome leather driving gloves and a nearly brand-new Homburg hat from an unlocked Rolls-Royce that was parked at the curb in front of an elegant mansion in very tony Belgravia. He sold the items to a shady chap in an alley near the BBC building next to the Langham Hotel, who Charlie knew conducted a good business in “found” items like that. That put three whole guineas in his pocket.
Now Charlie had somewhere to go that had nothing to do with shoveling sludge or nicking for money.
He hitched a ride on the back of a lorry and jumped off very near Chelsea. He walked the rest of the way to where Molly’s home used to stand in luxurious elegance.
Charlie searched through the debris and found the Conway Stewart pen wedged between two pieces of split brick. It was in surprisingly good shape and he pocketed it. After that was revealed a curved cherrywood pipe. Some coins, and pounds wrapped with a rubber band, were in a tin box that was under a mound of debris. They went into another pocket. He was quite surprised to find them because usually after the bombs dropped, blokes like him or else the firemen, wardens, Heavy Rescue men, or coppers made off with items like this. There was a hairbrush that he thought he recognized as one Molly had used on him. And finally he found a photo in a frame with the glass cracked.
In it were Molly and, he supposed, her mother and father. She looked, to Charlie, to be around six years old. He wiped it as clean as he could on his trousers and thrust it into another pocket.
He looked up and was surprised that he had not noticed it before.
The garage behind the house had not been damaged. This was akin to a miracle, but Charlie was used to such things. He had been in a building one time when the bombs fell. Both structures on either side of his had disappeared, while his building remained undamaged with nary a window shattered.
He made his way over the rubble to the garage and peered through the window. There was the Singer, yellow with a black top and a long, boxy bonnet.