Текст книги "The Blood Royal"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter Thirty-Two

He clamped Lily’s arm under his and set off at a fast lick up the boulevard towards the taxi rank in Grosvenor Place. The scene he’d just witnessed had disturbed him and he wondered how much of the undercurrent had been picked up by the sharp young woman trotting at his side. He decided to find out. He’d come at it crabwise.

‘Well, what did you make of Cousin Seb, then?’

‘A dangerous man, sir.’

‘Really? In what way?’

‘In the way a sixteen-point stag is dangerous to any rival. He’s marking out his territory, bellowing about the place and making sure of his hind.’

‘Great heavens! You make that genteel drawing room sound like a Scottish moor in the rutting season.’

‘A good analogy, sir. And if I were you, I’d pause for a moment to count up my own points. Because it’s your eye he’s planning to poke out.’

So it was out in the open. She’d seen that much at least.

Joe stopped and turned her to face him. ‘I’m not sure I understand your implications,’ he began, ‘but I am quite certain I don’t like the sound of them. The chap’s no more romantically interested in Cassandra than am I. If that’s what you’re suggesting. Good Lord! Attractive woman, of course, and not short of a bob or two, but the man’s totally unsuitable. A good five years younger than she is for a start. No money to speak of. And somewhat of an assertive character. Men with a high kill rate in their fighting years rarely settle down to peaceful domesticity, you know. No – too much of a daredevil for comfort.’

‘Exactly, sir. A modern man. A nice change for Cassandra. You forgot to add good looking – if you can accept the Ramon Novarro moustache. But with those heart-melting hazel eyes who’s going to quibble about a ’tache? He’s a bit bashed about but he’s energetic, and I’d say exciting. I bet he’s got the tickets for Venice booked already. Yes, Venice … that’s where he’d take her. Lucky woman. I envy her.’

‘Good Lord!’ Joe said again faintly. ‘Perhaps you should register an interest? Join the hinds? But – seriously – ought I to warn Cassandra of her danger?’

‘I’m sure that’s not necessary. She knows what’s what. And the boys seem very happy with the new arrangements. I’d put quite some store by that. William’s a romantic but John is surprisingly mature for his years. He’s made his calculations and read the small print in the will, I’ll bet. The only point on which the boys are confused is what they perceive to be their mother’s warm attentions to you, sir.’

Joe started to walk on. ‘None of your business, Wentworth, but since you brazenly choose to air it, I’ll tell you – she’s a demonstrative woman who’s been married for donkey’s years to a chap who was mostly absent and when present was not the best at expressing emotion. When a sensitive and concerned fellow – that’s me – shows a little regard she responds with a shade too much warmth, perhaps. Stop sneering! I think I have enough experience of life to know the difference between genuine affection and a show of it.’

He left a pause to allow her to absorb the suggestion of his worldliness, angry with himself that he had even embarked on self-justification.

‘All that hand-clasping, sir?’

‘Yes, that. And the slightly calculated and over-long embraces … the pretence of intimate knowledge …’ Joe shook his head. ‘As a matter of fact, I prefer chocolate cake … No, all a sham … I regret to say,’ he added, to be tormenting.

‘Have you asked yourself why she would bother, sir?’

‘Can’t say I’ve given it much thought with all the other things screaming for my attention. Assassination trumps a languishing look any day.’ He sighed and gave her arm an encouraging squeeze. ‘And, at all events, you can put all this Milady’s Boudoir nonsense out of your head – we have more serious matters to mull over. Cassandra’s news was a bit of a facer, don’t you think?’

‘Glory be, yes! Norfolk! A selection of the royal family gathered together under one doubtless rickety church roof.’

‘And, before you ask – I had no idea. If our Morrigan gets to hear of this – and on the rambling grapevine that is English society, she’s probably had word already – she’ll be forging her invitation, hiding herself behind the arras or planning to blow up the church. Next Saturday. It’s tight, but she must be accounted for well before next Saturday.’

‘Morrigan! Entertaining load of cobblers you were dishing out for the Dedhams! The cabby ruled her out? Oh, yes? And have you investigated a connection between the possible Sinn Fein lady and the possible gent at number thirty-nine?’

‘Mountfitchet? He’s not as white as the driven snow. Bacchus managed to gain access to the gentleman in one of his more wakeful moments. Kicked out of his regiment for naughtiness of various kinds. But he hasn’t two working brain cells to rub together, nor a political bone in his body, which is English to the core. No Irish connections whatsoever. Dead end I’m afraid, Wentworth.’

Taxis seemed to be few and far between on a Sunday afternoon. And, annoyingly, the moment Joe had attracted the attention of one, Wentworth unhooked her arm from his and turned a stricken face to him. ‘Oh, my Gawd!’ she gabbled. ‘Sir! Ever so sorry. I’ve left my shoulder bag by the sofa back at the admiral’s.’ She looked to left and right, calculating distances. ‘I’ll nip back and get it. Straight in and out. Don’t you come – they’d haul you in again and offer us drinks and we’d lose another hour. Look, that taxi’s drawing up … don’t let it go. Hop in and I’ll see you back at the Yard. I can just stay on the doorstep and ask Eva to fetch it out for me.’

She was six steps down the road by the time he called after her. ‘I know what you’re up to, constable! Stay clear of the hazel eyes – and the antlers!’

The taxi was turning in to Victoria Street when he began to curse himself for all kinds of a fool. He’d seen her hang her battered old satchel on the hatstand in his office before they left. Too shabby to take out to tea in Mayfair?

‘Cabby! Back to Melton Square! Fast!’

Lily walked past the Dedhams’ house and went to tug on the door bell of the residence of Mr Ingleby Mountfitchet.

She didn’t much like the look of the manservant who answered. Untidy, unwashed she suspected, and displaying all the cold cunning of a polecat. She told him she’d been sent to meet Mr Mountfitchet. His master would be expecting her, she added, dropping her voice to a confidential purr and putting a foot over the threshold.

‘Don’t be daft,’ was the rude response. ‘He’s said nothing to me. It’s six o’clock on a Sunday. He’s in his room. Recovering. And he’s not asked for one of your kind as far as I know. You’ve got the wrong day. It’s Fridays he’s frisky.’ He began to swing the door shut.

This was exactly what Lily wanted to hear. Her calculations and wild theories had been on the right lines. She wasn’t withdrawing now. She decided to make a scene. In her loudest cockney screech and waving her arms about, she pretended to lose her temper. ‘What the ’ell’s going on ’ere? I’ve come halfway across town for an encounter with Mr Mountfitchet … This is number thirty-nine, isn’t it? Well then, muttonhead, I’m the replacement for that last little disappointment. Besides, he owes us and I’m here to collect. Let me in or I’ll have to stand in the street an’ shout fire an’ rape an’—’

‘For God’s sake get her in off the doorstep, Warminster!’ The voice from the shadows at the end of the hall was lazy and amused.

The manservant stood aside, slammed the door behind her and grumpily moved off down the hallway.

Lily looked around to get her bearings. She was remembering a conversation with the ageing tart patrolling the Baze. ‘Before yer takes yer ’at off, dearie, yer checks yer exit. In case ’e turns nasty.’ Lily located the door knob and noted that the door was not locked.

The space in which she found herself hadn’t changed since Victorian times. She had an impression of tiled floor, mahogany furnishings, drooping drapery and dust-filmed plants struggling for survival in ornate pots. A grandfather clock whirred and clunked and began to strike six. There was about everything a sweet smell of rotting foliage.

The source of it moved quietly forward.

‘Well, well, let’s take a look at you, shall we?’

Ingleby Mountfitchet proceeded in accordance with his own suggestion. He stared long and critically at Lily. She stared back. He was in his forties and what Lily thought of as ‘going to seed’. Stooped shoulders, long unkempt hair, a pot belly and a dingy skin marred what might once have been a good-looking man. The impression of neglect was offset by the splendid Chinese lounging coat he was wearing. In brightly patterned silk and of loose cut, it was the perfect choice of garment for a Mayfair gentleman recovering from something unspecified on a quiet Sunday afternoon. Lily refused to speculate on what he might or might not have on beneath it. His breath stank fruitily of alcohol. Lord! Could that smell be cherry brandy? But he was by no means incoherent. She was relieved to see, as she gave him a professional evaluation, that his eyes, though rheumy, were perfectly focused. They swept her from head to foot and his lip curled.

This was the moment when Lily’s plan might very well falter. She stood tall and, aware that she had very little to tempt a man in the bosom department, stuck out her chin instead. She peeled off her gloves and placed them on the hall table; a hatstand received her hat. She shook out her hair. That at least always seemed to get attention. She took a few nonchalant strides down the hall towards him.

‘Two out of ten,’ he sneered. ‘Blonde and young. But the rest … a bit of a disaster, wouldn’t you say? The upholstery? Oh, my dear! Someone’s rather skimped on the filling. They field the reserves on a Sunday, I take it? Or is Mrs Braithwaite running out of full-bodied recruits?’

Lily raised her eyebrows in scorn. ‘Mrs Braithwaite knows her business. She knows her clients. You should trust her. I’ve been specially selected for this visit. She thought you might be in need of a good whacking after your disgraceful conduct the other night. And I’m rather good at punishing wayward young gentlemen.’ Lily advanced on him aggressively, reached out, and grasped the loose collar of his robe in one hand. She tugged his face close to hers and snarled, ‘You upset one of our girls. One of our top-drawer first eleven. Can’t have that, can we? I think I’m going to have to send you up to your room and deal with you.’

While she spoke she passed her other hand round his back and slipped the sash of his gown from its moorings at his waist. Trying for a lascivious leer, she looped the length of silk playfully round his neck, encountering a bobbing Adam’s apple but no resistance.

‘Good boy,’ she breathed. ‘I usually use a warm silk stocking. This is what’s called a collier de soie. Tight enough for you?’ She pulled harder until he gasped and nodded. Gratified to hear his breathing growing faster, she put a hand in his oiled hair and pushed him roughly down on to his knees. ‘And this is the position I like my naughty boys to adopt. Stay down! Now, before I drag you off upstairs to administer your punishment’ – she nodded towards the sweeping staircase – ‘I need an apology to take back to the boss. I want to know what you did to make our girl run off in the night. You’re about to be blackballed, you know. You’d better make your side of the story convincing if you’re to do business with us again. We’re very particular who we deal with.’

His voice took on a little boy’s whine as he replied. ‘Not my fault, honestly. How was I to know her husband was in the same regiment? It’s your fault. Should have done your homework. “Confidentiality assured” my arse! “Companionship of the first quality provided” – at least they got that right. She’s married to snotty old Buster Belton, and they don’t come more top drawer than that. Never could stand the fellow! Colonel now, they tell me … swanning about in bloody Burma, leaving his wife alone for years. Deserves all he’s getting. I recognized her at once, of course. Good-looking woman, if you like ’em raven haired. We’d met at two or three regimental dos. I was willing enough, but she wouldn’t have it. Oh, no. Put her completely off her stroke.’

‘You threw her out without paying is what we heard.’

‘Not true! It was her decision to beat the retreat. Too prim and proper despite the tawdry trade she’s involved in. A telephone tart! I wonder if it’s got to old Buster’s ears yet? Perhaps someone ought to tell him the memsahib’s spending her evenings doing war relief of a kind he wouldn’t approve of?’ He made the mistake of turning a waspish face to Lily. ‘Perhaps I’ll ask Warminster to bring me a sheet or two of regimental writing paper … that’ll get his attention. I’m sure I still have some about the place … Anyhow, upshot is, she screamed and ran. Stupid cow!’

An evil twist of the sash round his neck reminded him he was supposed to be abject and he whined again: ‘All her fault … do agree … but I’m ready to take my punishment if you think I’ve deserved it.’

Lily had all she wanted and was eager to leave. She released her grip on his neck and hair, and wiped her sticky hand on the Chinese silk at his shoulder. ‘Thank you for that. Tempted though I am by your offer of a fat bum to thrash, I think I’ll be off now. You can get up, you disgusting old toad. I’ll let myself out.’ She made for the door.

He was fitter and less drunk than she had reckoned. And much more angry.

With a snarl he was on his feet, gown flapping open, and coming after her. Lily turned, reached for and grabbed the loose sleeve of his outstretched arm. As his dash along the corridor carried him forward she pivoted, stuck out a foot, twisted and heaved. He landed full length on his back with a thud and an ominous crack as his skull hit the tiled floor. A plant stand, knocked out of kilter by his flying right elbow, wobbled. Its cargo of aspidistra in heavy pot fell to the ground and exploded like a howitzer in a shower of earth and shards by his ear. He howled. He began to raise himself, hugging his elbow, dazed but vowing retribution. ‘Who the hell are you? Just you wait, madam … I’ll see you in jail. No, I’ll get Jonas to help me drag you upstairs and teach you a lesson … Jonas!’ Filth began to flow from his lips as he embroidered on the punishment he intended to inflict.

The manservant, drawn by the yells and the crash, appeared at the end of the hallway in time to see the tart he’d just let in, one knee on his master’s chest, doing something unspeakable but clearly painful to Mountfitchet’s recumbent and semi-naked body. He stood, uncertain, unable to react. To intervene or make himself scarce? What in hell was going on? Some kind of game? He’d seen some rum scenes under this roof – participated in some, too – but this one looked a bit too real for comfort. Mountfitchet screamed again. Warminster drew his conclusions: this wasn’t playtime. The girl was making him suffer all right.

He decided to let ’er rip.

Aware of his presence, she called out to him. ‘Warminster – if that’s really your name – come closer. I need a witness. In a moment you must fetch a bucket of water and chuck it over your master. He’s not harmed. He’s just had a dizzy spell and tripped over an aspidistra. Oh, and bring a mop for the floor. It’s covered with filth of one kind or another. Now, Mountfitchet, I’ll say this clearly, and if you should later find you’re a little hazy on the details you can refer to Warminster here who is listening with commendable attention: your regiment has severed ties with you, and I for one trust their judgement. Leave those ties cut. Make no attempt to contact the officer you’ve just mentioned to me. Mrs Braithwaite has her connections – she’d set the law on you. And I’d come back and separate you from your crown jewels. Such as they are. My hat and gloves, please, Warminster.’

She paused in the shrubbery, as Mrs Colonel Belton apparently had, to hitch up her stockings and straighten her hat. If Lily had had a Balkan Sobranie available in a dolly bag, she’d have lit it. And taken a couple of nerve-calming puffs while considering her options.

Mountfitchet apparently was not a man to risk an appearance on the streets of Mayfair in his underpinnings. With no sign then, as now, of pursuit, the entirely innocent woman who’d used up so much police time and so many police handkerchiefs had made the mistake of trying to jump into the admiral’s cab. Out of the frying pan and into the line of fire. Poor woman. An encounter with Mountfitchet followed seconds later by one with Fenian gunmen? No wonder she’d been emotional. No wonder she’d stuffed her fingers in her ears, shut her eyes and screamed. And then gone underground.

Sandilands, in his lies, seemed, in fact, to have stumbled on the truth.

Mrs Belton was no more than a neglected army wife seeking cash and excitement. One of the hundreds of lonely and desperate women stepping out under the bright lights of the streets of London. Lily, out on her beat, had shared a park bench and an intimate conversation with many such. She’d heard confidences so raw, so devastating, they could only have been whispered into the receptive ear of a stranger who would listen and not condemn. The dangerous life of a London prostitute was no mystery to Lily.

Mrs Belton was clearly leading a dubious life that could only end in disaster, but she was no Morrigan.

And yet Morrigan had been here.

Someone had fired the last decisive bullet from the pavement a few feet from where she was standing now. Lily retraced Mrs Colonel Belton’s steps through the shrubbery and on to the pavement edge.

With unnerving coincidence, a taxicab screeched and swayed to a halt in front of her.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The door opened. Joe got out, bowing and smiling.

‘Still searching for your bag, Wentworth? Let me help. I think I may have a clue. Do get in.’ He called to the driver. ‘Change of plan, cabby … another one. Take us to St George’s Hospital, will you?’ He was trying for unconcern but feared he betrayed his tension as he asked: ‘Successful raid mounted, I take it, Wentworth … judging by the jaunty angle of your hat?’

‘Very successful, sir.’

‘And now you’re going to reassure me that you came into no direct contact with the dubious owner of the premises in front of which I find you skulking? That nothing … untoward occurred?’

‘Oh, plenty of untoward, sir. Lashings of it. Threats of a deviant sexual nature, blackmail and violence amounting to actual bodily harm all occurred. I’m afraid the gentleman has grounds for complaint against the forces of law and order, but somehow I don’t think he’ll fancy standing up in court to tell exactly how his privacy was invaded.’

She was smiling as she spoke but Joe was horrified. ‘Tell me you’re all right, for goodness’ sake, Wentworth!’ he croaked.

‘Tickety boo, sir. I came out as intact as ever I was when I went in.’

Joe sighed. ‘Here we go again! Very well – you got there …?’

*    *    *

‘So, you see, she’s not your Morrigan, sir.’ Wentworth gave him a sideways look, uneasy with Joe’s silence. ‘But I think you already knew that. You weren’t lying to the Dedhams, were you? And why are we coming to the hospital? The cabby really has regained consciousness – is that it?’

‘Notes of some of his communications with members of his family have started to come through. We’re in the neighbourhood … I thought we might check on him ourselves. If we should be lucky enough to find him compos mentis I should like to shake his hand. Ah, here we are.’

The matron welcomed them herself and had them conducted to the private room that had been allocated to Percy Jenner. ‘There’s a constable on duty and his daughter’s sitting with him,’ she’d told them.

‘But he’s asleep! How can he possibly be taking notes? This amounts to dereliction of duty,’ Joe hissed. He prepared to poke the gently snoring constable in the ribs, but found his arm being restrained by the young girl at the cabby’s bedside.

‘Please don’t bother him, sir. He’s done double time. His relief didn’t turn up and I was here anyway so I says just you have a quiet kip in that chair over there and I’ll stand watch. I’m Percy’s daughter, sir. The eldest. Clara. I’ve been taking notes. Sent ’em on to the super … what’s ’is name … Hopkirk. Didn’t they get them?’

Percy Jenner’s daughter was a pretty girl of about sixteen and if she had her father’s presence of mind she would be a good girl to leave in charge, Joe thought. He calmed himself.

‘Thank you, Clara. Well done. Commander Sandilands. And this is my assistant, Constable Wentworth. We did indeed receive your messages. Glad to hear your pa is doing better. Anything more to report?’

‘Same as ever. “Lucid intervals” is what the doctor says he’s having. Good sign, they think. But his brain’s swollen, or something … can brains swell, sir? Anyhow, they don’t want him using it for a bit. He needs to be asleep most of the time. I think they’re giving him something to keep him under. Not natural to be unconscious all this time, is it?’

‘Has he spoken? Does he remember what happened to him?’

‘Oh, yes, sir. It’s all down here in my notebook. Constable Mills copied it in his own hand to present to the super.’ She offered up her notepad. ‘Shall I read it out? It’s in shorthand. Not very good shorthand, but I can read it back all right. I’m taking a secretarial training. It’s all here with dates and times. He came to the first time yesterday when Ma was with him and started muttering. Family stuff you wouldn’t want to be bothered with. Said he was sorry for the trouble. Now – this morning with just me here, he asked: “Is she okay – the girl? Did they shoot her too?” He was out of his skin with worry. Twitching with it. Memory coming back … I said as no, she was all right and not to fret …’

‘Just the right thing to say, Clara, and quite true. Carry on.’

‘He said who’d done it. Irish. He went on about Fenians. I couldn’t spell the words he used even in shorthand, but I had a go. Those two blokes, sir, he said they’d shot the admiral and the policeman and the butler but he didn’t know what they’d done to the lady passenger.’ She consulted her notes and went on more hesitantly: ‘And then he said … um … maybe he was rambling a bit … he said: had they got the third man?’

‘Look again, Clara. Are you sure he said “man”?’

‘Yes. And third. As though there were three villains. But it only mentioned two in the papers. So I thought he must be confused. I asked him, “Dad, who else was shooting?” “Dunno, Clara,” he says. And then he says: “Bigger gun – Browning.” Dad would know about guns. “Who was it shooting, Dad?” I asked him again. ‘‘Burlington Bertie from Bow,” he says. Then he laughs and starts singing the song. Rambling a bit, I thought. Next he grunts out a few more words that don’t make much sense but I took ’em down straight … just as he said. Then Dad coughs and sinks from sight again. What shall I do now?’

‘More of the same, Clara. That’s excellent work! Look, stay on watch, will you? I’ll go and telephone for the con-stable’s replacement. You might like to stir him up a bit in a few minutes. Give him time to straighten his collar. He’ll want to look a bit sharper when the super comes roaring in. Just one more thing …’ He took his own notebook and a pencil from his pocket and passed them to Lily. ‘The constable is an adept at shorthand too,’ he said genially. ‘Just get your heads together, will you, and work out word for word that bit about the third gunman. It’s important.’

Lily scribbled as Clara showed and read out her shorthand. Suddenly she exclaimed and raised her pencil from the page, staring at the words she’d just written down.

‘You all right, miss? Aw, you’ve gone and broken your point! Here, borrow mine.’