Chapter 1
It wasn’t every day I found myself on my hands and knees, peering under a chair, trying to coax a terrified animal out of the corner it had hidden itself in. At the most, it happened once a week.
“I know you’re scared, but you don’t want Hetty to come after you with that dreadful broom again, do you?” I whispered.
The cowering, smooth-coated black pug had his back to me, curled into a tiny ball, his tail tucked between his legs.
“You’ve got the courage to come out from under there. And when you do, I’ve got sausage for you.” I extracted a small piece of sausage from the paper bag tucked in its usual place in my warm wool velour hunter green overcoat, and held it out as far as I could for the pug. His body stopped quivering for a second. “That’s it! I’ve not yet met a dog who can resist sausage from our local butcher. Mr Parsons provides high-quality products.”
I was in the butcher’s so often buying delicacies for the animals I looked after that Mr Parsons had taken to calling me ‘Sausage’ as a term of endearment. And since he knew where most of that delicious sausage ended up, he was kind enough to give me a hefty discount.
“Miss Vale! If you don’t mind me saying, you’ll ruin your skirt if you stay down there much longer.” Hetty Bishop appeared in the doorway of the sitting room, a large stiff brush in her hand and a scowl on her lined face. “Use this to move it.”
I waved away the offer of the unwelcome broom. “Peregrine needs time to understand he’s under no threat. And he’s grieving, so he’s particularly sensitive.”
She harrumphed her disbelief. “Animals don’t grieve. All they care about is who will give them their next meal.”
I left a piece of sausage under the wingback floral patterned chair and sat back on my heels, fixing her with a stern look. “And when did he get his last meal?”
She sniffed. “I’m here to clean, not to look after the animals. And that one needs to go. It made a mess in the back parlour. The rug is beyond saving.”
“Most likely because his usual routine has been upended.”
“As has mine. I’m out of a job!” Hetty flicked the broom at a speck of dust. “I’ve only stayed on because I’m paid up to the end of the week. And I want things to look nice. Flo may be gone, but she was good to me. A salt of the earth, despite her lofty career.”
“I’m sure she was. And I’m sure she’ll appreciate you keeping things tidy for her.” Although from the cobwebs under this chair, Hetty wasn’t thorough with her cleaning.
“I need to tidy in here. I’ve already stayed late and can’t be wasting no more time on you and that animal.”
“This animal is terrified and hungry. He’ll get all the time he deserves.”
“Let me give it another thump with my broom. That will get it moving.”
I stood slowly, set my hands on my hips, and glowered at the woman until she looked away. “The way we treat animals is a testament to our own character.”
Hetty turned and stalked along the hallway towards the kitchen. “Ten more minutes, and then you’re both out. I’ll call the police if I have to.”
I intended to go after her, but a small woof from Peregrine made me pause. There was no point in giving the cleaner a piece of my mind. I wasn’t here for her. This grieving pug had recently lost his owner, so I had hastened over here as soon as possible, getting the scantest details as to the events that led to the pug owner’s death.
So, I was somewhat surprised when I found myself in Mayfair, London. The houses were large, and the incomes equally so. The cleaner, Hetty, hadn’t been best pleased to let me in, but my contact, an acquaintance living in Epsom, had telephoned earlier that day to let Hetty know I’d be visiting to collect the pug.
Unfortunately, Peregrine was terrified, and according to Hetty, the poor creature had been hiding in various dark corners in the house ever since his owner died.
I stepped into the hallway, my gaze sweeping the faded grandeur surrounding me, and I took a moment to admire the elegant décor. It was dated but hinted at an availability of money. I cocked an ear as Hetty’s harsh tones drifted towards me. She was describing me as a stuck-up busybody who should mind her own business. I cared nothing about what she thought of me. My concern was rescuing this animal, and I knew exactly where to take him.
I walked confidently back into the sitting room. I peeked under the chair and was pleased to see the sausage I’d left had vanished. That was progress. As soon as the dog trusted me, I’d be able to catch him. Pugs were stubborn little creatures, but once you won them over, you had a loyal, cheeky friend for life.
Perching carefully on the edge of the chair Peregrine had hidden himself behind, I placed another sliver of sausage in my hand and tucked my fingers under the seat. I was prepared to wait it out, even if Hetty wasn’t. There was no point in grabbing the animal or scaring it into surrender. That only created a terrified creature. And terrified creatures usually bit!
While I waited for Peregrine to make his move, I inspected the photographs on the wall. All famous theatre stars from the turn of the century. I wasn’t a theatre buff, but I recognised most of them. Many of those faces had done sterling work during the Great War, involving themselves in tours to rally the troops, being a part of morale-boosting films that improved soldier and public morale, and generally providing an incredible service when times were at their bleakest.
A small, soft nose nuzzled my fingers as the sausage was taken.
“Good boy. If you come out, you can have as much sausage as you like,” I whispered.
We repeated the routine several times: sausage on fingers, Peregrine taking his time, then finally being brave enough to eat.
After the fourth piece of sausage had been taken, I slid back onto my knees and peered under the chair. Peregrine looked back at me with large shining chocolate-coloured eyes, blinked once, and whimpered. He had an adorable, squashed-looking face. Around his neck was a large, sparkly collar.
I set a small row of sausage pieces on the floor, each one closer to me, and I waited.
Peregrine waited too. Stubborn pup.
Eventually, the sausage line won, and he wriggled out on his belly to gobble each piece down, creeping closer to me with each bite. When he got to the last piece of sausage, he wolfed it down, looked up at me, and gave a gentle bark.
“We’re friends now, I see. Excellent news. You come with me. No more of this hiding nonsense,” I said.
The pug tensed when I went to pick him up, but within a few seconds of being in my arms, he remembered how good it felt to be snuggled, because he relaxed.
“At last!” Hetty reappeared at the door, and Peregrine growled at her. “You caught the nuisance. His brother and him were such pests whenever I worked. They were always getting in the way or nipping at my ankles.”
“There’s another pug in residence?” I asked. “I was only told about one in need of collection.”
Hetty waved a hand in the air. “It’s not here! I put together a box of the animal’s things. If you don’t take them, I’ll only throw them out.”
“I’ll take the toys. Peregrine will welcome his familiar things since his world has been so grievously upturned.”
“It’s by the front door.” Hetty shook her head as she regarded the pug with a shrewish look. “Florence treated those creatures like they were babies, not animals.”
“It’s a point of fact that we are all animals,” I said.
Hetty sniffed again. “Not by my reckoning. Time for you to go. You got what you came for.”
I stopped by a photograph hanging from a picture rail on the wall. “Your former employer must have been someone of note. These pictures are of famous people.”
Hetty looked at me as if I’d said something ridiculous. “Of course she was. Everyone knew Flo. And they all loved her. Mind you, they wouldn’t have been so fond of her if they had to clean up after her. She was almost as messy as her dogs, God rest her soul.”
“Florence was in the theatre business?”
“She was. You really must leave. I have so much to do.” Hetty marched to the door, lifted a box, and held it out to me.
I followed her to the door. “What about the other dog? I may as well collect them both. Where will I find him?”
Hetty tilted her head. “You don’t know what happened to Flo?”
“All I was told was there was an animal that needed rescuing because his owner died. I knew the woman’s name was Florence, and I was given this address. Is there something else I should know?”
Hetty pulled herself upright. “I should have said earlier. They found the other dog with Flo’s body. It’ll most likely be in the pound or have run off if the coppers didn’t grab it. That one was always escaping out the door if you didn’t watch for it.”
This news didn’t thrill me. The police dog pound was a notoriously unpleasant place, all cold floors and metal, and whenever I could, I got the dogs out and arranged for them to be fostered, or moved them to the much more appealing dogs’ home on the other side of the river.
“Where did Florence die?” I asked.
Hetty looked smug at having more information than I did, but I tried not to let it bristle.
“I don’t like to gossip,” she finally said.
“I’m sure you’ll make an exception on this occasion. Once I know everything, I’ll take this pug, and you’ll never see either of us again.”
“Florence took the dogs with her when she worked,” Hetty said. “But that one you’re holding wasn’t feeling well, so she left it behind. She was supposed to be home that night, but she never showed.”
“Did that not concern you?”
“I don’t live in. I have lodgings across town, so I didn’t know she hadn’t come home. Flo has several London homes, or she’d stay at a nearby hotel when she was working.”
“She died in a hotel?”
“I can’t tell you where she died. When the police came here, they said she’d passed last night after her performance. She was found when her other dog, Quillon, alerted to a problem. It kept barking.” Hetty’s expression grew sharp and shrivelled, as if she smelled something unpleasant. “The coppers wouldn’t tell me anything else, despite having worked for Flo for thirty years. If you need to know more, go to the Winter Garden Theatre. That was her second home, and where she held her last performance. The staff there should know more.”
I drew in a sharp breath. My gaze went to the sitting room with its photographs of dazzling bygone era theatre stars. “Flo. Florence. Are you talking about the theatre star, Florence Sterling?”
“And now the penny drops. The very same. And you’re standing in her home, holding one of her pugs,” Hetty said. “Aren’t you the lucky one?”
