A Traitor at Tower Bridge Page 2

  Eleanor nodded and crossed one silk-stockinged leg over the other. “I’d like you to tell me about Mr Cropper, if you would. Was he a good worker?”

  “Oh, yes. Good and conscientious. He’d been with us since just after the war.” His forehead creased in an effort of remembrance. “1919 he joined us, and he had a good war record, too. As far as I can remember, he never missed a day, apart from when he had the flu a year or so back.”

  “Was he popular with his mates?”

  “I never heard anything to the contrary. Martin was an easy-going chap, in my estimation. I can’t recall him ever getting angry or roused up against anyone. Very placid, very pleasant. I can do with a few more like him on my books, I can tell you.”

  He laughed at his attempt at a joke. He’d confirmed what Mary had said about never having rows with her husband, though, and Eleanor smiled at the man opposite.

  “Mrs Cropper said he was working at Tower Bridge. How many men do you employ there?”

  “A lot. There’s twenty of them in total, in two gangs, working from each end.”

  “Would Cropper be known to all of them?”

  Bairstow twisted his mouth to one side. “I would think so. Most of them, at any rate.”

  Eleanor bit back a sigh at the thought of having to interview all of the missing man’s colleagues. Still, perhaps she’d get lucky, and gain valuable information from the first one she spoke to.

  “Can you think of any reason for him to be missing, Mr Bairstow?”

  Cropper’s employer shook his head and pulled at an earlobe. “No, I can’t. It’s a complete mystery to me. I’d have said that he was happy enough here. We pay the men a decent wage and, although I don’t know Martin’s financial situation, I wouldn’t have said he had money worries.”

  “Any enemies? He doesn’t sound the sort to make them.”

  “Exactly. Like I said, he was placid, and he was devoted to his wife, so that’s another reason he might have gone missing that has to be crossed off the books.” Eleanor raised her eyebrows and he nodded at her. “Oh, yes, don’t think I haven’t wondered about that myself.” He pushed the papers around on his makeshift desk. “I can only assume that he must have been in an accident and perhaps lost his memory, or something.”

  “Yes, that’s possible. I wonder how many hospitals there are in London? Is there one in Southwark?”

  “There’s a couple, actually. Guy’s Hospital and St Thomas’s. Neither of them are far from here.”

  Bairstow offered her directions and Eleanor wrote them down in a notebook she took from her bag.

  “Thank you, Mr Bairstow. Would you mind if I spoke to some of Martin’s colleagues? He might have confided something to one of them.”

  He gave this some thought before nodding a reluctant agreement.

  “I’ve no objection, as long as you don’t distract them. We’re on a tight schedule at Tower Bridge, do you see? We have to have it done, newly painted and all spick and span, before the royal barge comes down river on the 22nd of the month. We can’t afford to fall behind, or I’ll have the City of London Corporation on my tail, and Martin Cropper’s disappearance left me one man short. By a stroke of good fortune, I managed to replace him quite quickly and we didn’t lose any time.” As if the word time had brought him back to Eleanor’s request, he glanced at a clock on the wall. “I’d prefer you to speak to the men in their lunch break, but as it’s Saturday, if you go there now they should be about ready to clock off for the day.”

  “I’ll do that, thank you.”

  Eleanor was about to get to her feet, but Bairstow put up a hand to stop her.

  “The men have a lockable hut on the approach road to the bridge. You can’t miss it, it’s where they store their equipment and such like. There’s one on either side, but your best bet is to speak to those on this southern side. That’s the crew Cropper worked with.”

  “Thank you, that’s very helpful, and thank you for sparing the time to talk to me.”

  This time she did rise, and extended her hand which he took in a firm grasp.

  “Oh, a pleasure, my lady. I just hope you find Martin Cropper and that he hasn’t come to any harm.”

  So did Eleanor, yet given all she had learned from John Bairstow, that was looking increasingly unlikely. Quite what sort of harm or injury might have befallen Martin Cropper remained to be seen, but in order to discover what had happened to him, she would need to find the last person to have seen him.

  Outside the office, Eleanor got back into the car with a plan firmly in place. She would speak to Cropper’s workmates, and follow the trail from there.

  She drove away, hoping she was heading in the right direction for Tower Bridge and not on a wild goose chase.

  Chapter 3

  Eleanor found a place to park the Lagonda quite close to Tower Bridge, then set off on foot in search of the workmen’s hut that Bairstow had mentioned.

  The smell of frying fish lingered on the air from a nearby fish and chip van. Eleanor’s stomach growled with hunger. She strolled on past with gritted teeth. It would not be fair on Tilly, slaving away at a hot stove all morning, if her mistress returned only to say that she’d eaten lunch out.

  The roadway across the river was down and traffic was flowing freely in each direction. She kept her wits about her as she crossed the road onto the far pavement, and pulled her cloche close about her ears in an effort to counteract the brisk breeze from the river.

  On the opposite bank, the massive bulk of the White Tower, built at the orders of William the Conqueror and after which the bridge was named, loomed into view, white and shining in the fitful sunshine. Her eyes spared it a glance as she headed onto the ramp looking for the painters’ lock-up.

  She saw the men first, a chattering line in paint-speckled overalls, walking along the wide pavement that ran through the arch from the bridge’s central section. As soon as she spotted them, she also spotted the shed they were making for, relaxed and laughing now that their shift had ended. She hurried towards them.

  “Good morning! May I speak to you for a moment?”

  The sight of her tall, elegant figure brought admiring glances and a whistle of appreciation to more than one pair of lips.

  “It’s about Martin Cropper.”

  Jostled by pedestrians, she clung to the edge of the hut, as one of the gang fetched a bunch of keys out of his overall pocket and quickly opened the door.

  “Oh, aye? What’s he got to do with you?”

  Eleanor didn’t miss the glances that passed between them: some were merely puzzled, but at least two shared a lascivious look that she wasn’t keen on. If only there had been somewhere less crowded where she could interview Cropper’s mates.

  “It will be a tight squeeze, but you can come in, if you wish.” The man with the keys stood back to let her in. He was tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair and blue eyes that appeared to twinkle with amusement at the thought of her entering.

  Faced with five of them, Eleanor decided to let discretion be the better part of valour and remained outside. The hut might prove a lion’s den.

  “No, that’s all right. Mr Bairstow told me where to find you and suggested I came now. I’m here on Mary Cropper’s behalf. My name is Eleanor Bakewell. Lady Eleanor Bakewell.”

  It might have been a mistake to mention her title, but she hoped that, together with their employer’s and Mary’s names, they would take her questioning more seriously.

  “All right with me,” said one of the men. “If you don’t mind me taking me overalls off at the same time.”

  Eleanor’s eyes widened then, seized by a spark of inspiration, she flashed them a ravishing smile.

  “Look, the Commercial Hotel is just across the way.” She pointed back the way she had come. “I’ll wait for you in the lounge, and buy a drink for all who turn up. I promise I won’t keep you long, but I do need your help.”

  The painters exchanged glances once again, before the man who had spoken
to her first nodded in agreement.

  “All right, then, my lady. We’ll be across in a minute or so, and we’ll hold you to that offer of a drink.”

  “Of course.”

  Eleanor turned on her heel and walked towards the hotel. She might feel a right fool if none of them showed up, and goodness knew what the management would think if they did, but it was probably a safer, and more comfortable option than trying to interview them on the bridge — or worse, in their hut.

  Inside the hotel, the residents’ lounge lay directly opposite the reception desk. As a sign said the lounge was open to non-residents, Eleanor walked straight in and took a seat at a large circular table.

  The room was almost empty. A man sat reading a newspaper by the window, a leather briefcase by his feet, and a somnolent cat sprawled in front of the fireplace.

  As its name suggested, the Commercial Hotel dealt mainly with commercial travellers, those with business at the docks and the many industries scattered throughout the area, or clustered along the bank of the Thames. It had made an attempt to appear genteel with lace-trimmed antimacassars on the backs of the armchairs, though the effect was somewhat marred by the mirrors on the walls carrying the name of a well-known brand of beer across the glass.

  Eleanor ordered a coffee from a fresh-faced waiter, and wondered how many of Cropper’s workmates would join her, and how long she would have to wait until they did.

  Not long, as it turned out. They arrived, all five of them, at the same time as her coffee.

  “Now then, now then,” said the clearly flustered waiter, as the gang gathered around Eleanor.

  She motioned them to a seat.

  “That’s all right. These gentlemen are with me. Will you take their orders, and let me have the bill, please?”

  While she was speaking, she took her business card from her bag and placed it on his tray.

  The waiter glanced down and shrugged. The scandalised look disappeared from his face. Had he thought her some high-class call girl? They were in the stews of Southwark where the ladies of the night had plied their trade, when all was said and done. She must remember that and have an escort with her, if and when she came to the area again.

  “Very well.” The waiter looked at the men around the table. “What do you all want, then?”

  With the exception of one who refused a drink, the rest ordered half pints of best bitter. It helped to keep the costs down, but Eleanor doubted she would be passing these expenses on to Mary Cropper. The woman had mentioned savings but, if Eleanor was any judge, she’d need all that she had to keep body and soul together before too much longer.

  A waft of turpentine overpowered what little aroma her coffee possessed as the men took their seats around the table. Without their overalls, they looked a disparate group, tall, short, burly or thin. Most were young or middle-aged, though one appeared close to retirement — his skin lined and leathery, his hair almost white.

  Hands clasped, Eleanor put her forearms on the table and leaned forward. “Thank you, gentlemen. Now, to business. Mrs Cropper has engaged me to try and find her husband.” She tapped a fingernail on the table top. “I wasn’t sure where to start, so I thought it best to talk to you. I’d like to know how he seemed to you last Saturday morning. What sort of mood was he in?”

  “Just as normal, my lady. No different.”

  It was the same man who had spoken to her on the bridge. Eleanor asked his name.

  “McIntyre, my lady. Cameron McIntyre. I’m by way of being the foreman of this motley assembly.”

  There were guffaws around the table at this announcement, but Eleanor took it at face value. Unless anyone really had information, if they’d seen him in the week since Saturday, for instance, it was as well to have one person as their spokesperson.

  “Was he easy to work with? Mr Bairstow called him placid.”

  “Aye, that’s about right. Easy, pleasant, not given to anger, or starting fights or arguments. That was Martin.”

  There were nods and murmurs of agreement all around, apart from the man sitting directly opposite her.

  “You don’t agree?” she asked him.

  “Oh, Simon is Martin’s replacement. He didn’t know him.”

  Eleanor spared a quick look at the man McIntyre pointed out. A nondescript, sandy haired chap, though his clothes were a cut above the rough and ready stuff that the rest were wearing. She didn’t fault any of them for that. No one wore their best to work.

  “Did any of you know Martin well? Well enough to know if he had money worries, or...” She paused and let her glance travel around the table, holding their attention. “Or another woman, perhaps?”

  A loud “tut” from behind her right ear announced the return of the waiter. He placed the tray he carried in the middle of the table, gave a sniff that reminded Eleanor of Tilly, and made her want to laugh, and held out his hand for the money.

  “That will be one-and-fourpence, please.”

  Eleanor counted out the coins and dropped them into his palm. “Thank you.” She waited until he had wandered off before picking up on the question she’d posed.

  “Well?”

  To a man, they all shook their heads before reaching for their glasses.

  “Cheers!” said McIntyre.

  “Not women. Cropper was a one woman man.”

  “Yes, he adored his Mary.”

  “Got eyes for no one but ’is wife, hadn’t Martin.”

  “They’re right.” McIntyre wiped foam from his top lip. “As to money...” He grinned and looked around at his mates. “Which of us couldn’t do with more, eh?”

  “Ha! A lot more in my missus’s case.”

  “Yeah, Geoff, but she only spends it on you.”

  Eleanor let the good-natured banter continue for a moment or two before she brought them back to the purpose of her visit.

  “So, Martin was happily married and had no money worries, that you know of. What about his job? Was he happy at work?”

  “Think so. Bairstow’s is a good company to work for. If he had any complaints, he kept them to himself.”

  No one admitted to seeing Cropper in the week since his disappearance, and nobody knew of any cause for him to be missing. He was popular with the gang and their bafflement was evident.

  “My bet is he’s had an accident,” said the older man. “He’s probably banged his head and lost his memory.”

  “Amnesia, you mean?” the man addressed as Geoff asked. “You could be right, Pop.”

  Eleanor sighed and sat back.

  “That is a possibility. Well, thank you for your help, gentlemen.”

  It doesn’t take long for a thirsty man to down a half pint of beer. One by one they got up and thanked her, then went out together. All except for McIntyre who lingered in his seat for a moment.

  “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others, my lady...”

  “But?”

  He placed his hands flat on the table, then drummed the long slender fingers for a couple of beats before replying.

  “Well, if Cropper had a fault at all, it’s that he was fond of his drink.”

  “Oh? Overly fond, would you say?” Eleanor had visions of the man staggering drunkenly into the Thames, or into the path of an oncoming automobile. She shuddered.

  “No, I wouldn’t say that. I’ve never known him turn up at work with a hangover, but he would often suggest going for a drink after work. In fact, the last time I saw him he was heading into the Crown and Anchor pub just down the road from here.”

  “And that was last Saturday?”

  “Yes. Never clapped eyes on him since.” The corners of his mouth turned down. He shrugged. “I hope your ladyship finds him — for Mary’s sake, if nothing else.”

  “So do I, Mr McIntyre. So do I.”

  She got to her feet and they walked together to the door.

  “Which direction is the Crown and Anchor?”

  “Turn right outside and it’s about a hundred yard
s. It’s a decent enough place. You needn’t worry about going inside.” He sketched a little bow and said cheerio.

  Eleanor watched him walk back towards Tower bridge, a niggle of doubt in her mind.

  If Martin was as devoted to his wife as his employer and workmates all claimed, why did he go to the pub after work, instead of straight home to her? And why had Mary made no mention of his drinking when she’d called at Bellevue Mansions?

  Unless, of course, it wasn’t true, and for reasons best known to himself, Cameron McIntyre was trying to pull the wool over her eyes.

  Chapter 4

  Deciding she had just time to visit the Crown and Anchor before going back to Bellevue Mansions for lunch, Eleanor strode smartly in the direction McIntyre had pointed out to her. The inn sign marking her destination hung out over the heads of passers-by and she entered via the door marked Public Bar without breaking her stride. If Cropper was a regular drinker here, it would be the bar that he frequented, not the more salubrious Lounge whose door lay further on.

  Eleanor’s entry caused a sudden silence to descend on the bar’s occupants, as though all the air had been sucked out of the room.

  Acutely aware that she was the centre of attention and the reason for the deathly hush, she nodded to the group of drinkers huddled around a table in front of the fireplace and walked up to the counter. The landlord raised a pair of bushy eyebrows as if customers as well-dressed as Eleanor were a rarity in his establishment and therefore worthy of note.

  He continued his appraisal of her as he ran a finger down his long crooked nose and brushed at his close-cropped moustache.

  “Yes, ma’am? What can we do for you?”

  Delighted to find that he kept his place of business clean and sweet smelling, and that her feet did not stick to the floor on spilt beer, Eleanor introduced herself and stated the reason for her visit.

  “I’m working for Mary Cropper, trying to find her husband, Martin. He hasn’t been home for a week, and she’s very worried. A workmate has told me he last saw him coming in here a week ago.”