Queenie's Castle

by Lena Kennedy

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

Just one cruel twist of fate will bring his world crashing down . . . Perfect for fans of EastEnders Falling asleep on the bus after a hard day's work, Joe finds himself stranded in the East End, disorientated in the heavy fog and innocently embroiled in a violent encounter. The incident ends in murder and Joe is accused - of the real villains there remains not a trace. But his memory of that fateful night, and a clue to the identity of the murderers, helps him through his time in prison and fuels his desire to uncover the truth. His quest leads him back to the East End and to the Ship and Castle pub, run by the mysterious and formidable Queenie . . . **************** What readers are saying about QUEENIE'S CASTLE 'Had you gripped from the start' - 5 STARS 'A lovely book by a wonderful author' - 5 STARS 'Lena Kennedy manages to transport you into her stories' - 5 STARS 'Very good reading' - 5 STARS 'Brilliant' - 5 STARS

Release date: May 9, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 192

Sample

1

Mistaken Identity

Even for November, the night was cold. It was late and the whole of London was shrouded in smog – thick, choking smog, a real pea-souper. It brought a filthy yellow mist which crept up the nostrils and stung the eyes, choking throats and killing off the sick and vulnerable. People out in a night of smog, the population of the great city, would wrap scarves over their mouths in order to breathe, anxious to prevent the evil air creeping down into their lungs as they hurried home from their offices and factories to their warm household fires and hot food. It was impossible to see further than a few inches.

 

On this night, the buses had stopped. A long line of them was halted at the roadside. ‘All change!’ the conductor called to the last passenger – a man who had fallen asleep on the top deck.

The man awoke with a start. ‘Where are we?’ He peered out of the window but could see nothing.

‘We are at Aldgate, sir,’ the conductor replied. ‘But we’re not moving any more tonight. The fog is too thick.’

The passenger got up from his seat and stumbled down the stairs. ‘What the devil do you mean?’ he demanded. ‘I was supposed to get off at Baker Street. How am I going to get back there?’

‘Sorry, sir,’ returned the conductor with a shrug, ‘it’s been a hazardous journey tonight and I’ll be very pleased to pack up and go home.’

The passenger stood looking confused and then the bus driver joined them on the platform. An irate and tired little cockney, he was not so polite. ‘Are you getting orf, mate? I’ll tell yer, this bus ain’t movin’ no more tonight.’

‘Damn and blast,’ said the passenger. ‘Where’s the tube station?’

‘It’s that way,’ said the conductor, pointing out into the thick yellow air.

‘You won’t arf be lucky,’ cackled the driver. ‘It’s past midnight by now.’

The man jumped from the bus and stood for a moment on the pavement, as he tried to get his bearings. His shoulders drooped wearily and his short straggly beared was covered with drops of moisture from the thick fog. He was tall and thin with long limbs and sensitive long-fingered hands. His broad face was drawn and tired, the skin taut over his cheek bones. In one hand he carried a battered old leather briefcase. ‘What a fool I am,’ he muttered. ‘How could I have slept through my bus stop? I must have been so tired. I shouldn’t have stayed so long correcting those exercises. Damned illiterate hooligans! I don’t know why I bother.’

Joe Walowski was a teacher at a sixth-form college in a run-down part of Paddington. Towards the end of term he often became so exhausted that he would drop off into a deep sleep as soon as he sat down. To relax meant to doze off. It was most annoying. And now he had the long dreary journey back to his lodgings ahead of him. What a miserable life!

Dejectedly, he pulled up his coat collar and set off. Lost in his melancholic thoughts, he took little notice of his surroundings. People stumbled past, voices drifted through the yellow haze. It was like a lost world.

Suddenly a high-pitched note pierced the freezing air. It was the sound of a ship’s siren. That must mean that he was near the river. Joe made his way towards the siren noise, but found himself up against a brick wall. ‘Oh blast!’ he exclaimed. Turning round in confusion, he did not know where to go.

 

It was then that the woman appeared, smiling at him like a phantom from the night. Overhead, the light from a yellow lamp tried valiantly to compete with the gloom. And there she was, sauntering slowly towards him, small and slim, wearing a short miniskirt, a tight blouse, and a black leather jacket.

To Joe, standing forlornly beside the brick wall, she was a warm and pleasant sight. As she came closer, he could smell the cheap perfume she wore. The mysterious effect was spoiled somewhat when she opened her rosy mouth. ‘Christ!’ she said, with a strong cockney accent. ‘Ain’t it foggy? I can’t see a bleedin’ thing.’

Joe was too surprised to answer. He simply stared straight at her, fixated by her violet eyes and the deep cleavage where her plump white breasts nestled in her blouse.

‘Come on then,’ she said, grabbing his arm. ‘Let’s go down the café, it’s cold out here.’

Astounded, but more than willing, Joe went along with her. He was being picked up, and it was just as well, he thought, since this girl clearly knew the narrow back streets very well indeed.

They made their way through the fog and at last a glint of pale light crossed the path ahead. Squinting up, Joe could just make out the words: Fred’s Café.

Inside the dingy room, there were a few marble-topped tables, a juke box and a one-armed bandit. They all seemed to crowd the grubby grey linoleum floor. At the far end, behind the cramped counter, and standing near a dirty steaming urn, was the proprietor, Fred. A big fat man, rat-faced, grimy and unshaven, he was slowly pouring boiling water from the urn into a blue enamel teapot.

‘Thank Gawd!’ exclaimed Joe’s blonde companion. ‘It ain’t arf flamin’ foggy out there.’ She rubbed her hands together to restore the circulation in her fingers.

Feeling rather bewildered, Joe hesitated in the doorway.

‘Come in, guv’nor!’ called the woman. ‘Put the wood in the ’ole!’

As Blondie was pointing at the door, Joe realised that he was supposed to shut it. This he did nervously as Blondie took his briefcase from him and placed it on top of the counter. ‘We’ll have a cuppa first. The boys’ll be here soon and we can sort out the loot then.’

Joe did not understand what she was talking about but he was happy to be able to wrap his hands around the heavy mug of tea that was handed to him. As his hands warmed up, Joe sat blinking his eyes which were red and sore from the ravages of the smog. In confusion, he watched Blondie carefully and tried to follow what she was saying. He generally prided himself as someone who was good at languages. Being of Polish origin but brought up in New York City, he spoke several languages fluently. But this cockney accent at full speed was impossible to translate.

Blondie suddenly went off into a cascade of giggles which sounded like dirty water going down a drain. It was infectious. Joe found himself smiling as he sipped the steaming brown tea and watched her with amazement.

Blondie abruptly stopped laughing and reached into her jacket pocket. Her hand came out empty. ‘Nuffink in here,’ she said with a grimace. ‘Got a tenner, mate?’ she asked Joe. ‘By the way, my name’s Maisie.’ She smiled sweetly at him.

Joe considered for a moment and then put his hand into his trouser pocket to produce two six-penny pieces. Maisie took them from him and put them straight into the juke box. She selected some music, and within seconds the café was filled with the stereophonic sound of pop music. Maisie began clicking her fingers and dancing in time to the music. She cavorted about the small floor space, with her arms waving and her hips swinging.

Joe closed his eyes wearily and sighed. He loathed pop music. This racket was the last thing he needed. He opened his eyes slowly and stared with puzzlement at Maisie. She was still bopping to the music but had sidled up to the counter. She glanced surreptitiously at Joe, who pretended to have his eyes closed still, then she leaned over the counter and produced another briefcase which looked identical to his. What was she doing? Joe rubbed his eyes and looked again. There was one case on the counter. Had he imagined that there were two or not? Was he suffering from double vision in his exhaustion? The sooner he got home to bed, the better. The music was awful, and made his head throb. Then at last it was over, the money in the juke box had run out. Now Maisie was at the door arguing with someone. Joe turned to see a thin-faced youth wearing a black leather jacket decorated with what looked like a swastika. In his hand he swung a crash helmet.

Maisie was quite agitated. ‘Where have you been, Nosher?’ she demanded. ‘Supposed to look after me, wasn’t yer?’

‘I got lost in the fog, Maisie,’ Nosher whined. ‘Let me just sit down and have a cheese sandwich,’ he said. ‘I’m starvin’.’

‘That’s it, all yer fink about is eating,’ Maisie declared belligerently. ‘I done the job all on me own, and where was you?’ she yelled.

Nosher lowered his voice. ‘Where is he?’ he asked.

‘Over there.’ Maisie jerked a thumb in Joe’s direction.

Joe listened to this exchange and wondered what it was all about. But he was too tired to care. He gazed out of the grimy window and was relieved to see that the smog was clearing a little. The shadows were becoming a pearly grey and the yellow clouds were dispersing as the rain won its battle with the fog.

By now Maisie and her friend had left the café and crossed the road to the telephone box. Peering through the window, Joe could just see Maisie’s golden hair as she and Nosher both squeezed into the red kiosk. From their gestures, the two of them seemed to be quarrelling.

Joe had had enough of the night’s events. It was time to part company with new acquaintances. He picked up his briefcase, nodded to Fred, who was wiping the tables, and slipped out into the street.

 

As Joe Walowski headed home, a lively scene was being enacted in Fred’s Café. A few minutes after Joe had left, another young man arrived. He was huge, broad-set and smartly dressed in a well-cut suit and polished brown shoes. On his large square head he wore a little trilby hat, and a large cigar was balanced in the corner of his mouth. He puffed at it calmly, rarely taking it from his thick lips, even when he spoke.

Fred leaned on the greasy counter and yawned. ‘Hello,’ he said to the newcomer.

The other man grunted. ‘Where are all those bleedin’ kids?’ he demanded.

Fred leaned down and from behind the counter produced Joe’s brown leather briefcase. This he handed to the man while at the same time pointing towards the door where a terrified-looking Maisie stood next to her friend.

The beefy young man frowned and carefully opened the briefcase. Looking inside, he let out a loud roar like an angry bull. Swearing furiously, he tipped up the briefcase, scattering Joe’s papers and exercise books all over the floor. ‘What the hell has gone on? The job was called off because of the weather,’ he yelled. ‘Trust you stupid buggers to muck it up.’ Red-faced, he turned to Maisie who was now cowering in the corner. Nosher backed away and moments later had roared off on his motorbike.

‘I d . . . done it,’ stuttered Maisie in terror. ‘I fought he was the bloke, it was ever so foggy.’

‘That’s why the real geezer never came off the boat, you silly cow!’ the man roared.

‘Oh,’ cried Maisie. ‘Who was that bloke then?’

‘Most likely to be a copper, you bloody fool. Where is he now?’

‘Nosher’s gone after him,’ Maisie replied.

The man snorted. ‘A lot of good he will be if the Old Bill are waiting down there. Now he’s got the briefcase with all the money and we ain’t got the dope. Come on, let’s get him!’

The pathetic little blue exercise books of Joe’s students lay face upwards on the dirty café floor as the burly man and Maisie ran like the devil was after them through the misty back alley-ways.

 

Joe trudged on. Ahead of him he could see traffic lights which indicated that he was approaching a main road. And now at last he could hear the distinct whine of traffic on the move. Too tired to think, he swung his briefcase as he walked. Thank God it was Friday. Tomorrow he could have a good long sleep and a lie-in. Perhaps he and Anne could go for a walk in the park . . .

But unfortunately for Joe, the night wasn’t over yet. Suddenly he heard the roar of a motorbike travelling at high speed behind him. But before Joe had time to turn his head, a hand reached out and snatched the briefcase. The motorbike then roared off into the night.

Joe was astonished. He stood rooted to the spot, his mouth open but speechless. Moments later, he was attacked a second time. A burly man charged at him, knocking him off his feet and dragging him by the collar into a narrow opening between two high walls. Winded and shocked, Joe gradually realised that he was lying flat on the ground with something heavy pressed down on his chest. Looking up, he saw the burly man who was kneeling on him and holding a gun against his temple. Joe stared at the large head and mean eyes that glared at him.

‘Cough up, copper,’ a voice croaked. ‘What’s yer game?’

‘Get off, if you want an answer,’ Joe gasped.

The burly man got up, pulling Joe with him, and pushed him violently against the wall.

‘I think Nosher got the briefcase.’ Joe recognised the whining tones of Maisie.

‘I’m not a policeman,’ he said, his courage now returning.

‘Well, what are you doing down here, then?’ demanded the bully. He waved Joe’s now empty briefcase in front of him.

‘I got lost in the fog,’ explained Joe. ‘I’m a school teacher. Your little girlfriend picked me up and took me to the café.’

An image of the blue exercise books left back in the café flashed through the bully’s mind. He looked worried. He was good with his muscles but in this sort of situation he was out of his depth. He turned to glare at Maisie. ‘You picked up the wrong bloke,’ he accused her. She was huddled against the wall, her blue eyes big with fright.

The bully suddenly lost all confidence. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said, scratching his head under the small hat. ‘You take care of him. I suppose I’d better run down to Queenie’s and tell the Gaffer.’

‘But what will I do with him?’ demanded Maisie, pointing at Joe.

‘Keep him until I come back,’ the man growled at her.

‘But he might punch me up,’ whimpered Maisie.

The man sighed impatiently. ‘Well, take the bleedin’ gun, then, but be careful. Don’t let it go off or you’ll have all the Old Bill on the manor down here.’ Dropping the briefcase, and handing his gun to the white-faced Maisie, the man slid off into the night.

 

Leaning against the wall, Joe was praying that this was not really happening. It all seemed like a corny movie. It had to be a nightmare. He rubbed his eyes with his hand and peered at Maisie.

A striking change had taken place in this woman. She no longer cringed and whimpered like a scared pup. Now she was all confidence. With one hand in her pocket and the other holding the gun, she placed a slim leg upon the low wall and said in a growl, ‘Don’t mov. . .