Snobbery With Violence: An Edwardian Murder Mystery Page 3

  “It’s like this.” Posh Cyril leaned forward. “It was my night off and I was playing cards in the kitchen at Blandon’s. The bell for the front door goes. The footman went to answer it. Then we hear shouting and swearing. I nipped up the stairs and opened the baize door a crack. There’s this tall, black-haired fellow and he’s smacking into Blandon with his fists. He brings him down and then he leans over him and says, ‘Leave the country by tomorrow or, by God, next time I’ll kill you.’”

  “No charges have been laid.”

  “But Blandon thinks the earl hired someone to beat Blandon up. That’s criminal,” said Posh Cyril.

  “Was the assailant some hired thug?”

  “No, he spoke like a gent. Got gent’s clothes on, too.”

  “That lot are a law unto themselves,” said Kerridge. “Nothing there for me.”

  “The newspapers might pay for this.”

  Kerridge sighed. He knew if the newspapers got hold of it, he would have to investigate for the sake of formality. Then someone would have a word with someone else in high places and he would be ordered to drop it.

  “Keep your mouth shut,” he ordered, “or I’ll make sure your employers know all about your record. Here’s half a crown. Now take yourself off.”

  “What is it, Brum?” asked the earl the next afternoon. “Is everything ready for our departure tomorrow?”

  “Yes, my lord. A person has called to see you.”

  “I don’t see persons.”

  “This person is a police officer.” Brum held out a small silver tray with a card on it.

  The earl took it. “Detective Superintendent Alfred Kerridge. Dear me. I’d better see him. Where is he?”

  “In the ante-room.”

  “Send him up.”

  Now what? wondered the earl. Have we engaged some criminal by mistake? There’s that new hall boy, whatsisname.

  The doors opened and Kerridge was ushered in, holding his bowler and gloves in one hand.

  “Sit down,” ordered the earl.

  The stocky detective sat down gingerly on a delicate-looking chair which creaked alarmingly under his bulk.

  “I do not want to distress you, my lord, by referring to the matter of your daughter’s confrontation with a certain Sir Geoffrey Blandon—”

  “Then don’t.”

  “It has however come to my attention,” pursued Kerridge, “that Sir Geoffrey was beaten up by an assailant and ordered to leave the country.”

  A slow smile lit up the earl’s face. “By Jove! Really?”

  “Yes, really. My lord, you did not by any chance hire such an assailant? My report says he spoke like a gentleman. He is tall and has black hair.”

  Cathcart, thought the earl, with a sudden rush of gratitude. “No,” he said coldly. “I am not in the habit of hiring thugs. I should warn you….”

  Here it comes, thought Kerridge.

  “…that the Prime Minister is known to me.”

  “How did Lady Rose get that sheet from the betting book of a gentleman’s club?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Perhaps Lady Rose could tell me?”

  The earl rang the bell. “You have overstepped the mark. We have nothing to do with the assault on Blandon, and if you insist on pursuing this, I shall have a word with your superiors, not to mention…”

  “The Prime Minister,” said Kerridge.

  The butler appeared. “Show Mr. Kerridge out,” ordered the earl.

  It was just as he expected, thought Kerridge, but perhaps his visit might persuade the earl that he was not above the law. Then he realized dismally that the earl had just persuaded him that he was.

  The earl had never regarded himself a gossip and despised those whom he considered indiscreet. But when he arrived at his club an hour later and saw Brigadier Bill Handy sitting by the fire, the temptation was too much.

  “Well, well,” said the brigadier. “I hear you’re leaving town. Bad business. Cathcart do his job?”

  The earl sat down and leaned forward. “He did more than his job. Worth every penny of that thousand pounds he charged. He thrashed that bounder, Blandon, and told him to leave the country. But don’t tell anyone. Most grateful to you.”

  “What about your daughter? There was no reason for such a scene. How could she behave so disgracefully?”

  “To tell the truth,” said the earl miserably, “I don’t know my own daughter. She had what seemed an excellent governess. Rose wanted a good education. I should have known how dangerous that is. Men hate a woman with a brain. Not me, but then, I’m highly intelligent and sensitive.”

  “Quite,” said the brigadier, looking with amusement at the earl’s guileless face.

  “When Rose took off for that demonstration, we thought she had gone off to visit the vicar. Fact was, she took a train to London. Couldn’t blame the governess. She’d already left.”

  “What about India? Send her out there. Lots of officers. By the way, did you just say that Cathcart charged you a thousand pounds?”

  “I know. I was shocked. Didn’t expect the fellow to behave like a tradesman, but he did the job all right. As far as India is concerned, we’ll think about that. But don’t say a word about the Cathcart business.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  The next day, the brigadier was strolling along Piccadilly. He stopped to look in the window of Hatchard’s bookshop. A tall, stately figure emerged. “Lady Glensheil!” said the brigadier, doffing his silk hat. Lady Glensheil was the daughter of one of his oldest friends. “How d’ye do?”

  “Very well, I thank you. And you?”

  “Splendid. Splendid. Oh, I say!” For a large tear had escaped from one of Lady Glensheil’s eyes to cut a wet furrow through the thick powder on her cheeks.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. Her maid stepped forward and handed her a handkerchief and she dabbed her face.

  “It must be something,” insisted the brigadier. “Walk a little with me and tell me about it.”

  He proffered his arm. She put the tips of her fingertips on it and they walked slowly along Piccadilly.

  “I am ruined,” said Lady Glensheil.

  “Money?”

  “Good heavens, no!” Lady Glensheil was shocked at the very idea that a lady would even mention such a sordid subject.

  “I am here to help you,” said the brigadier gallantly.

  “I must talk to someone or I’ll go mad,” she said. “But not here.” With her eyes she indicated her maid and footman following behind.

  “We’ll go into the Green Park,” said the brigadier. “Send your servants off when we get there.”

  She nodded. The brigadier cast anxious little glances at her as they proceeded on their way. Lady Glensheil in his estimation was a fine figure of a woman. Others might think she had a hatchet-face but the brigadier considered it truly aristocratic. Her heavy silk gown was liberally decorated with fine lace. Her straw hat contained a whole garden of artificial flowers.

  Once they reached the park, Lady Glensheil ordered her servants to walk a distance away and then sat down on a bench with the brigadier.

  “Now,” he said, “what do you mean, you’re ruined?”

  “It’s simply terrible. Glensheil’s up north. He detests the season. I’m here to bring Fiona out. My youngest.”

  “And?”

  “I commissioned Freddy Hecker to do a portrait of me.”

  “Who is Freddy Hecker?”

  “He is an up-and-coming artist. We became friendly—too friendly.”

  “Ah!”

  “He is now blackmailing me.”

  “The scoundrel should be horse-whipped.”

  “He says unless I pay him one hundred guineas a month, he will tell Glensheil.”

  “Deny the whole thing!”

  “I wrote him letters.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “I don’t know what to do. I feel sick!”

  The brigadier sat in silence. He had promised
Hadshire not to mention Cathcart. But still, he could not bear to see her suffer.

  “I think I know someone who can help you. He…fixes delicate situations.”

  “Oh, please. Give me his name.”

  “There’s only one trouble. He’ll probably charge steep, about a thousand pounds.”

  “I have my own money. The reason I did not agree to pay Hecker was I knew he would bleed me dry.”

  “So it was a money problem after all.”

  “Certainly not. We never discuss money. You know that.”

  The brigadier suppressed a smile. He took out his card-case and extracted a card, wrote Captain Cathcart’s name and address on the back. “That’s the fellow,” he said. “Go and see him but go alone.”

  “I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”

  “Thank me if it works out.”

  “A lady to see you, sir,” said the captain’s manservant.

  “Which lady?”

  “The lady is heavily veiled and will not give me her card.”

  For some reason, Harry had a picture of Rose, her face illuminated with happiness—a happiness all too soon to be snuffed out.

  “Send her in,” he ordered.

  He experienced a little pang of disappointment as the heavily veiled figure that was ushered in was obviously not that of Lady Rose. This lady had a mature figure and was dressed accordingly.

  “Do sit down,” said Harry. “Something to drink?”

  “Nothing, I thank you.”

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  “I did not expect you to be a gentleman. I must beg you to be discreet.”

  “I am always discreet.”

  She put back her heavy veil. “I am Lady Glensheil.”

  She studied the captain’s face but he expressed no surprise, only continued to look at her inquiringly. “Please sit down,” he said, “and tell me why you have come.”

  She sat down opposite him and then looked nervously at the window. It was still daylight.

  “Would you be so kind as to draw the curtains? Someone passing in the street might see me.”

  “Certainly.” The captain rang a bell by his chair. “Becket,” he said, when his manservant appeared, “draw the curtains and light the place.”

  They waited in silence while Becket drew the curtains closed and then lit the gasolier.

  “That will be all,” said Harry. “Now, Lady Glensheil…”

  She opened an enormous reticule and after much fumbling produced the brigadier’s card and handed it to Harry.

  I may be discreet, thought Harry, but the brigadier most certainly is not.

  “And what do you want me to do?”

  “I am being blackmailed,” said Lady Glensheil. She began to cry. Harry rang the bell again and ordered brandy. He waited patiently while Lady Glensheil’s tears washed a copious amount of white lead make-up and rouge onto a delicate handkerchief. He took out a large one of his own and handed it to her.

  She began to recover and even drank some brandy.

  “It’s all too, too terrible,” she said and then regaled Harry with the story of the blackmailing artist.

  “I see,” said Harry when she had finished. “I suppose the first thing to do is to get the letters back.”

  Wild hope shone in her eyes. “You could do that?”

  “I will most certainly try. I will do my best to make sure he never troubles you again.”

  “Oh, thank you!” Again the reticule was snapped open. This time she produced a roll of banknotes and handed them to him. “I thought it would be more discreet to pay you in cash.”

  Harry hesitated. It was one thing to take cash from the earl, another to take cash from a lady in distress. But the money would set him up very comfortably. He could even rent a carriage. A proportion could go to charity to ease his conscience. “Thank you,” he said. “Would you like a receipt?”

  “No, please, nothing in writing. No one must hear of this.”

  “No one will hear a word from me. I do not go around in society much.”

  “I do not know why. You must come to one of my soirées.”

  “Too kind. But a lot of my lack of a social life is of my own choosing. Please leave this matter with me and you shall hear from me shortly. Please write down this artist, Freddy Hecker’s, address.”

  Again the reticule was snapped open and a small notebook with a silver pencil attached produced from its depths. Lady Glensheil wrote down an address, tore off the page and handed it to him.

  She rose to go. “Do you have your carriage?” asked the captain.

  “Of course not. I came in a hansom.”

  “Then Becket will find you one to take you home. Ah, how do I contact you? You will not want me to call at your town house in case your husband is there.”

  “Glensheil’s in Scotland. Wait, my card. Call on me as soon as you have anything.” While she ferreted for her card-case, the captain rang the bell and asked Becket to fetch a cab.

  Soon her majestic figure, once more veiled, had departed and there was only the faint scent of patchouli in the room and a large roll of banknotes as a reminder of her visit.

  Three

  When leaving town, it is usual to send round cards to all your friends with the letters P.P.C (pour prendre congé) written in the corner. This obviates the necessity of formal leavetakings.

  —FLORA KLICKMAN, HOW TO BEHAVE

  The earl’s well-sprung carriage bore them off to the country. It was a perfect day. Not a cloud in the sky. The striped blinds and awnings on the shops and houses gave the city they were leaving behind a festive air.

  Rose sat in a corner of the carriage, trying to read, trying to escape from the feeling that as much as she had been tricked by Sir Geoffrey, she was as much to blame for her disgrace.

  If only she had cultivated the friendship of the other debutantes, she thought again, she might have picked up useful gossip about the season in general and Sir Geoffrey in particular.

  The fact was she had armoured herself in learning to combat her shy nature. She had felt her superior education had given her the edge over those other silly girls. And yet she was the one being banished from London in disgrace.

  She also felt a slow burning resentment for Captain Harry Cathcart. There was no need for him to have produced such dramatic evidence to overset her. If he had not interfered, then Geoffrey would have propositioned her and her eyes would have been opened to what kind of man he really was.

  If she and the captain ever crossed paths again, she hoped she could think up some way to humiliate him.

  The morning after Lady Glensheil’s visit, Harry strolled along the King’s Road and found a pub opposite to where the artist, Freddy Hecker, had his studio. Most of the windows were of frosted glass, but one which had been smashed recently had been replaced by plain glass.

  He bought a half pint of ale and positioned himself at a table at the window and began to watch.

  After an hour, a maid opened the door and handed a man his hat and stick. That must be Freddy, thought Harry.

  He waited until the artist had strolled off down the road and then left the pub and went across and knocked on the door.

  The maid, who was buxom and pretty, answered his knock.

  “Hecker in?” asked the captain languidly.

  “I am afraid the master is out, sir.”

  “When are you expecting him back?”

  “In about an hour, sir.”

  “Good, I’ll wait.”

  The maid hesitated. “Would you not like to leave your card, sir, and come back later?”

  “No, my good girl, I would not. The wretched man is supposed to be painting my portrait.” He loomed over her and she nervously stood aside. “Where is the studio?”

  “Upstairs, sir, but—”

  “I’ll find my own way.”

  Harry went up a narrow staircase. A door on the landing was open, revealing the studio, a vast room made up of two st
oreys that had been knocked into one.

  “May I bring you some refreshment, sir?” said the maid’s voice behind him.

  “Nothing, I thank you. Run along. I must figure out which is my best side.”

  He closed the door behind her and began to look around. Now where would the wretched man have hidden the letters?

  As he searched around behind easels propped against the wall and through boxes of materials which the artists used as backcloths, Harry realized that this was where he worked but not where he lived.

  He opened the door and went down the stairs again. The maid was waiting at the bottom.

  “I’ve made a frightful mistake. I was supposed to call at old Freddy’s home to make the arrangements. He’ll be waiting there for me. Lost the address. Give it to me.”

  “It’s at Twenty-two, Pont Street, sir. May I have your card?”

  “Listen, I don’t want Freddy to know I was such a chump. Don’t tell him I called here first.”

  Harry produced a sovereign and held it up. “Promise?”

  The maid took the sovereign and bobbed a curtsy. “Oh, certainly, sir. Most grateful, my lord,” she added, elevating him to the peerage.

  Harry hailed a hansom cab in the King’s Road and directed the cabby to Pont Street. He took out a half hunter and checked the time. If Freddy had gone to his home and if he had meant that he really would be back in his studio in an hour’s time, he should be leaving fairly shortly.

  He strolled from Pont Street to a news vendor’s kiosk and bought a copy of a newspaper. He strolled back to Pont Street, occasionally stopping to look at the paper as if he had just noticed a fascinating item. At last he was rewarded with the sight of the young artist he recognized as Freddy leaving his house. He certainly was a very handsome young man, with thick curly fair hair and a cherubic face.

  The captain waited until the artist had disappeared down Pont Street. He went up to the door and rang the bell. An imposing manservant opened the door to him. Freddy must be doing well, thought Harry. The tyranny of visiting cards. He wished he had thought to have some fake ones printed.