Selby was a thin, tired looking man around forty. His dark brown hair was thick and curly, which gave him a strange look in the rigid class system of 1911.
As he entered the premises on Duke Street, he noted with interest the gargoyle which sat to the left of the mahogany door.
“Strange brute that,” he said to the butler.
The tall man ignored him, and led him quickly through to the lounge, where lady Marion Porter waited.
“Nice of you to come so quickly sir,” she said from the comfort of the sofa.
“I like to be prompt,” he replied. “May I ask why you need the services of a detective?”
The woman reached into the top of her dress and held out a black and white photograph.
“I would like you to find him sir.”
He regarded the picture with interest. It showed a short, sturdy and balding man.
“Is he a relation?” Selby asked.
The lady smiled.
“No sir. He is my husband.”
Selby coughed and placed the photo into his inside pocket. Raising his voice a little, he said, “In that case, I will need a full list of your husband’s watering holes.”
A light drizzle had fallen upon the streets of London, and Jones felt uncomfortable in his formal attire.
As the brougham drew up outside the Atrium Club, his employer climbed out and paid the driver.
“Take a deep breath Jones,” Selby said. “We are entering rarefied air indeed.”
Jones smiled and followed him inside. The doorman stepped aside as he received the expected bribe, and they walked into a large formal room.
Members of the local gentry, dressed in dark suits, and talking with upper class accents, were sitting at tables dotted around the floor.
“Imagine it Jones,” Selby whispered. “There is enough money here to keep you for life.”
He walked over to the bar area and accosted the barman.
“Have you seen this man?”
The barman glanced at the photograph quickly, and shook his head.
Jones stepped in.
“We understand he comes here regularly. We can always double check you know.”
The young barman scowled and said softly, “He was here two nights ago. What of it?”
Gradually the barman talked. The object of Selby’s attention had left the club with two well dressed women. He had overheard them saying they would walk by the river.
“Come on Jones,” Selby said at length. “Let’s go fishing.”
As the carriage took them towards the Thames, Jones said, “This will take us all night.”
Selby shook his head.
“Not so. I reckon those women are rather loose with their favours. Which means one place. The Albert Bridge.”
“I think you are jumping to conclusions,” Jones replied. “You have no proof that these two are women of that sort.”
Selby laughed.
“Tell me Jones. How many well to do women do you know who operate in pairs?”
“Well none of course.”
“Exactly. Women of the night always do you know. It’s called safety in numbers.”
The two men sauntered down Cheyne Walk towards the large suspension bridge which crossed the river towards Battersea Park. They had only gone a short distance when Selby noticed something.
He stooped down and picked up a handkerchief.
“So it ended in murder,” he said softly.
He held out the piece of cloth, and pointed to the initials H A in the corner.
“Follow me,” he said tersely.
Jones hurried after him, until they came to a building painted brilliant white.
There were red curtains hanging at each window.
“This is the place,” Selby said, bounding up the steps. He rapped loudly on the door.
“We need to see Sarah and Helen this very minute,” he said to the middle-aged women who opened it.
The woman smiled, and led them to a reception area. A moment later two women entered. They were both about 40, and wore flowing dresses that were so low cut that Jones eyes opened in amazement.
“Can we do something for you sir?” one of them asked, her voice low and her eyes slyly flirtatious.
Selby took the handkerchief from his pocket.
“Fetch the Peelers Jones. We have the killers.”
Slowly the story came out.
“Soon after we reached the bridge, our client became violent through his damn whisky. He pushed Helen to the ground, and would have killed her if I hadn’t slammed him over the head with my cosh. After that we rolled him into the drink. It was self defence sir. We swear.”
It was only when they had been led away that an amazed Jones questioned his companion.
“It was the handkerchief, my dear friend. Remember those initials? H A? I know the ladies of this area, and that meant Helen Anderson. As for her friend, you never see them apart.”
They hailed a brougham which took them to their modest second floor flat, and sank into two chairs.
“Now we wait for the next case,” Selby said, before falling asleep.