Free Princes Gate by Mark Ellis

of my tea.”
    “Detective Chief Inspector Merlin, madam. I’m here to investigate the death of your lodger, Joan Harris.”
    “Oh, dead is she? When her brother and the copper came she was only missing. You found her quickly then. Will her brother be paying me the arrears of rent?” The landlady took one final puff of her cigarette, looking at it with more emotion than she apparently felt for Joan Harris, and threw the stub onto the pavement.
    “I am sure something will be worked out Mrs – er – Bowen, isn’t it?”
    “Yeh. So what now? I’d better get on and clear her stuff out.”
    “I’d prefer it if you didn’t do that for the moment.”
    “Why not? Got to get someone else into the room. Can’t hang around. Perhaps you think I’m made of money?” Mrs Bowen attempted to fold her arms under her imposing bosom but, failing in that endeavour, she raised her right arm and leant against the doorpost. Merlin stepped back as her breasts rose and swung in his direction.
    “May I come in?”
    Mrs Bowen’s expression softened slightly as she appraised her visitor. “Oh, alright then. I’m always a sucker for a handsome face. Suppose you want to poke around her room?”
    “Thank you.”
    Stepping into the hallway he had a view of the main living room to his left and was surprised to see a very tidy interior. Mrs Bowen appeared to compensate for her personal slovenliness with a keen attention to her housekeeping.
    “Mind if I finish my egg and chips? You can have a cuppa if you want.” Mrs Bowen shuffled towards the kitchen at the end of the hall corridor.
    “No thanks. Where is Miss Harris’ room?”
    “It’s the door facing the stairs on the first floor. Don’t make a mess, please.”
    The room was large, larger in fact than his own in Chelsea. He idly thought he could do with a bit of extra space. Then again, Hammersmith was a bit further out than he liked, he didn’t quite fancy the change in landladies, and he wasn’t so keen on a room recently inhabited by a dead girl.
    A single bed lay against the wall to his right. On the far side of the bed, next to the room’s one window, stood a large wardrobe. On the near side, next to a washbasin, was a chest of drawers. The walls of the room were covered with a yellow lacquered wallpaper on which a small cast of Victorian figures posed in various hunting tableaux. Clashing somewhat with this decor, a faded pink armchair sat in front of the bed and to the side of an ornate Victorian fireplace.
    He put on his gloves. A range of ladies toiletries covered the washbasin and two shelves above it. It seemed to him that there was quite an amount for a young girl of limited means. Alice had never been a great one for make-up, perfumes or nail varnish. A dab of lipstick and a splash of eau-de-cologne had been all she wanted. He carefully went through the clothing in the chest, trying not to feel like a pervert when he rummaged through the underwear. He found nothing of interest. Moving to the other side of the bed, he opened the wardrobe and found a colourful selection of dresses and skirts. His eye was caught in particular by a long silvery evening dress.
    A wave of sorrow passed over him, superseded swiftly by a surge of anger. A young life full of possibilities snuffed out meaninglessly. He sat down and took out his notebook. “Clothing, etc. seems to me of high quality – too high quality for secretary up from country – ditto perfumes, etc.” He went over to the fireplace. On the mantelpiece was a black and white photograph of a working-class family. Merlin recognised Joan’s brother in the picture, which also featured a sour-faced woman, a similarly miserable man, three young children of indeterminate sex, and a pretty teenage girl. He picked up the photograph and scanned Joan’s blurred features. She had indeed been a looker. The eyes were large and doe-like. Her flowing fair hair fell prettily on her shoulders and her full lips were parted in a