‘Weren’t like nothing, because you never saw them. I saw the girls now and then in the back, playing out there, but him only when he wanted me to. And her, never. See, they kept to themselves and shut the rest of us out — curtains always closed, never going about or chatting like normal folk, wouldn’t hardly open the door to the postman’s knock. My missus said we ought to extend the hand of neighbourliness; I said they could go to the hot place, pardon me, miss. I mean, here we was, two families marooned in the only building in the middle of a bleeding metropolitan desert, and they wouldn’t offer to share a cup of cold tea!’
Janet Striker leaned forward. ‘What were the girls like?’
‘Pathetic. Not out of want, I don’t mean pathetic that way, but off to themselves all the time and lonely. You could tell. Like they was dying for company, for conversation. Nice enough girls, mind.’
‘Did you ever hear them talk about Stella Minter?’
Penrose stared at her. ‘That’s an odd one. That’s right odd, I mean it.’
‘Why?’
‘How could you know about that?’ He looked at them with sudden suspicion, as if they had revealed some incriminating secret — a tail, or an odour of brimstone. Then he thought better of it. ‘It was a game they played, the two sisters. It was sort of a tea party or something — all in dumb show, mind, except for the odd old cup or a rock they’d picked up. But I’d look down from our window — I’d have put my feet up for a bit — and, there they’d be out in the garden, except there wasn’t no garden then, jabbering to each other and playing at pouring tea — I got that much — and other stuff I couldn’t tell, like talking to people that wasn’t there, and so on. I went down one day, I had something to fix on our back door, and the little one sees me and she says — they was always eager to talk — she says, “We’re playing cellar-minto.” Or that’s what I thought she said. Made no sense, but I thought it was some word they’d made up; I don’t know kids’ games. Then later, another day, she said it again and I got it as stellar-minto. Stellar-minto, all right, makes no sense to me either, but so what? Now here you come along and say it again, I haven’t heard it in, what? — four years. And it all comes right back. What’s it mean, then?’
‘It’s a girl’s name — Stella Minter.’
He looked at her, frowned. ‘What’s that mean, then — we’re playing Stella Minter? Playing at somebody else? Making fun?’
‘More like being somebody else.’
Penrose went on frowning, then shook his head; he put his hands on the table as if to push himself up, and Denton hurried to say, ‘What sort of man was Satterlee?’
Penrose grunted, a single scornful sound. ‘Harold Satterlee was the sort you don’t want hanging about. Full of himself. Drove his workmen like billy-o; that’s why the company hired him, I suppose. I had one run-in with him, that was all I needed to see of him.’
‘What happened?’
‘Look, mate, I’ve really got to go. I’ll make this quick.’ But it was clear that Penrose liked the chance to tell the story. ‘Satterlee comes to me and says he wants me to refuse to sell beer to his men in the middle of the day — says it slows them down in the p.m. I said that was bleeding nonsense and I wouldn’t do it. He says if I don’t do it, he’ll go to the company and close me down. Well, I laughed in his face! I said to him, see here, my man, they didn’t build this pub first because they liked the look of it, you know; they built it so the workmen can grab a pint! You go and tell the company to shut it down, and they’ll shut you down. You’ll be out on the street, not me. Well, he knew I was right, but he got mad as a wet hen. Swore terrible, put his face in mine, said he was going to pound me. So I showed him my friend in need — ’ Penrose pulled only the handle of a leather-covered truncheon from his trouser pocket — ‘and said I’d have him level on the ground before he could swing a fist. Well, he knew I’d do it, so he stomps off bellowing and never spoke to me again. Nor could his kids after that — they’d look away if they saw me. I felt that sorry for them. The bigger one, Alice, she could have been pretty, but she had a hard time of it. And a hard time since, I’d wager.’
‘It’s she who’s dead, we think,’ Janet Striker said.
‘Ah, poor tyke. How?’
‘Murdered.’ She glanced at Denton. ‘If it’s the same girl. Look here, Mr Penrose, it’s important that we find the Satterlees. I take it they’re not here any more. Where have they gone?’
Penrose, on his feet now, shook his head. ‘No idea, and good riddance. The company might know — he might’ve gone someplace else to do the same job for them.’ He shook his head again. ‘Murdered! You never know what tomorrow will bring, do you?’
‘What’s the company?’
He looked perplexed, as if everybody knew what the company was. ‘Britannic Improvement. Their name’s all over London.’ He said the name again, as if they might be slow. Then he shook hands with both of them, muttered ‘murdered’, and was gone.
Neither of them had done more than sip the ale, so they left it on the table. Both were silent in the cab, heading back through evening streets towards the Marlborough Road station. It was colder and a few flakes of snow were falling, melting as they touched the pavement. At last he said, ‘I’ve got to find him.’
‘Them,’ she said. ‘It’s the whole family, Denton — and they may be the wrong ones.’
They rode along. He said, ‘How do we find them?’
‘The company, I suppose. If they’ll tell us. Tomorrow’s Saturday; the company offices will be open, but if the important people aren’t there, it might be hard to get them to tell us. “Oh, you must wait for Mr Smith to return on Monday.” Does it really matter, Denton, whether it’s tomorrow or Monday?’
‘It matters to me.’
They waited on the cold platform, then sat silently side by side like a long-established couple who’d been having an argument. At Baker Street, they changed to the Metropolitan Line and went on, silent, swaying, until he said abruptly, ‘We’ll get out at King’s Cross and walk.’
‘I don’t want you to walk me home.’
‘We’re going to my typewriter’s on Lloyd Baker Street. I think I know how to find the Satterlees.’
‘But it’s impossible, Mr Denton!’ Mrs Johnson was less scandalized than usual because Denton had a woman with him; she had even let them both inside the front door. ‘It’s after seven o’clock, Mr Denton — they’ve worked all day and they’re not going to work all night!’
‘I’ll pay double! Triple! They won’t have to work all night — it’s one name, one name!’
‘Mr Denton, they’ve been three days, looking for Ruths and Rebeccas; now you want them to look for Alices and Ednas. I’m sure they’ll be happy to try again on Monday.’
Janet Striker said in her most severe voice, ‘The Metropolitan Schools Board building is open until nine o’clock. I know, because I’ve had to go to meetings there. We have two hours — more, Denton, if you’re not averse to bribing people.’
Mrs Johnson sucked in her breath, as harsh a rebuke as she ever allowed herself.
‘It will also cost something to prise the records out at this hour. Mrs Johnson, do you know what records they were looking at and in what office?’
Mrs Johnson wilted under Janet Striker’s tone. She didn’t know, she murmured; she hadn’t been doing the work, only organizing it; Frederica Tilley had been the one actually there and running things.
‘Where is she now?’ Janet Striker demanded.
‘Home, I suppose, slaving all day as she’s been doing. Several streets away. No, of course I don’t have a telephone — nor she — it’s ten minutes’ walk-’