Free Princes Gate by Mark Ellis Page A

winsome smile. Despite being dressed as shabbily as the rest of her family, she seemed a cut above.
    Merlin slipped the photograph into his inside pocket. Further along the mantelpiece were a group of china puppies and kittens, a small clock and a neat pile of books. At the top was an Everyman edition of Pride and Prejudice . Beneath was a battered copy of A Tale of Two Cities and beneath that a bright new edition of Huckleberry Finn .
    He riffled through the pages of the Austen and then the Dickens. Nothing unusual revealed itself. Huckleberry Finn ’s glossy wrapper portrayed a very blue Mississippi on a sunny day, with a river steamer making its happy way between the river banks. When he opened this book he noticed a spidery inscription on the flyleaf.
    “To J. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Good luck with everything. Your friend J.”
    He looked at the back of the book to see if there were any other written inscriptions but found none. He flipped through the pages as before. A small object fell to the floor, and he knelt to pick it up.
    It was a blue matchbox. On the cover was a silhouette in white of a curvy female figure holding out a cigarette in a cigarette holder and a name – ‘The Blue Angel’.
    Merlin knew most of the nightclubs in London from the time, a couple of years before, when he’d had several major gangland cases. Investigating these had involved much trawling around clubland – smart dining clubs, cabarets, spielers, clip-joints, seedy drinking clubs and clubs which were brothels in all but name. Despite ‘The Blue Angel’ sounding familiar, he could not recall it.
    When he went back down the stairs, Mrs Bowen was hovering in the hallway. She had taken her curlers out and appeared to have made some effort to improve her appearance, although the yellow stains remained. “Finished?”
    “Yes, thanks. Could I have a few words with you about Miss Harris?”
    “Alright, but I’m sure I’ve got little to tell you. Come in here.” Mrs Bowen opened the door of her living room. He followed her and sat down on a comfortable settee in the middle of the room.
    The landlady relit the new cigarette dangling in her mouth and sat down opposite him.
    “What sort of a girl was Joan?”
    “I don’t really know. Kept herself to herself. She was polite – I’ll give her that.”
    “Did she have any friends to visit?”
    “One of her girlfriends from work came around a few times. Don’t know her name. Pretty thing with red hair.”
    “Any men?”
    “None. Rule of the house. No male callers. I won’t have any funny business.” Mrs Bowen primly pursed her lips.
    So your other lodgers are female?”
    “Yes they are. I’ve got two other lady lodgers.”
    “Who are they?”
    “Don’t think they’d welcome me talking about them. Very private people.”
    “I would be grateful for their names.”
    Mrs Bowen took a long draw on her cigarette. “Miss Simpson and Miss Foster. They’re friends. Old ladies. Been here about four months – since just after the war started.”
    “Are they here now?”
    “They went away. Visiting friends in the country. Wiltshire or Gloucestershire I think. Back today or tomorrow I believe.”
    “Could you let them know that I or one of my officers will need to speak to them when they return?” He wrote down the names in his notebook. “Did Miss Harris ever stay out at night?”
    The landlady pursed her lips again. “I have rules in my own house, but I can’t have rules outside, can I? I lock and bolt the door at 10.30 at night. If any of my lodgers are later than that they have to make other arrangements.”
    “Did she miss ‘lock-up’ many times?”
    “Didn’t keep count. A few times certainly. She was away for a few weekends as well. Visiting her family, I think.”
    “She had some nice clothes in her room.”
    Mrs Bowen’s heavily lipsticked mouth opened into something between a leer and a smile. “Pretty stuff she had. Saw her in her shiny evening