Death in a White Tie

III

On the same day that Lord Robert Gospell called on Lady Carrados, Lady Carrados herself called on Sir Daniel Davidson in his consulting-rooms in Harley Street. She talked to him for a long time and at the end of half an hour sat staring rather desperately across the desk into his large black eyes.

‘I’m frightfully anxious, naturally, that Bridgie shouldn’t get the idea that there’s anything the matter with me,’ she said.

‘There is nothing specifically wrong with you,’ said Davidson, spreading out his long hands. ‘Nothing, I mean, in the sense of your heart being overworked or your lungs at all unsound or any nonsense of that sort. I don’t think you are anaemic. The blood test will clear all that up. But’—and he leant forward and pointed a finger at her—‘ but you are very tired. You’re altogether too tired. If I was an honest physician I’d tell you to go into a nursing-home and lead the life of a placid cow for three weeks.’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘Can’t your daughter come out next year? What about the little season?’

‘Oh, no, it’s impossible. Really. My uncle has lent us his house for the dance. She’s planned everything. It would be almost as much trouble to put things off as it is to go on with them. I’ll be all right, only I do rather feel as if I’ve got a jellyfish instead of a brain. A wobbly jellyfish. I get these curious giddy attacks. And I simply can’t stop bothering about things.’

‘I know. What about this ball? I suppose you’re hard at it over that?’

‘I’m handing it all over to my secretary and Dimitri. I hope you’re coming. You’ll get a card.’

‘I shall be delighted, but I wish you’d give it up.’

‘Truly I can’t.’

‘Have you got any particular worry?’

There was a long pause.

‘Yes,’ said Evelyn Carrados, ‘but I can’t tell you about that.’

‘Ah, well,’ said Sir Daniel, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Les maladies suspendent nos vertus et nos vices.’

She rose and he at once leapt to his feet as if she was royalty.

‘You will get that prescription made up at once,’ he said, glaring down at her. ‘And, if you please, I should like to see you again. I suppose I had better not call?’

‘No, please. I’ll come here.’

‘C’est entendu,’

Lady Carrados left him, wishing vaguely that he was a little less florid and longing devoutly for her bed.

IV

Agatha Troy hunched up her shoulders, pulled her smart new cap over one eye and walked into her one-man show at the Wiltshire Galleries in Bond Street. It always embarrassed her intensely to put in these duty appearances at her own exhibitions. People felt they had to say something to her about her pictures and they never knew what to say and she never knew how to reply. She became gruff with shyness and her incoherence was mistaken for intellectual snobbishness. Like most painters she was singularly inarticulate on the subject of her work. The careful phrases of literary appreciation showered upon her by highbrow critics threw Troy into an agony of embarrassment. She minded less the bland commonplaces of the philistines though for these also she had great difficulty in finding suitable replies.

She slipped in at the door, winked at the young man who sat at the reception desk and shied away as a large American woman bore down upon him with a white-gloved finger, firmly planted on a price in her catalogue.

Troy hurriedly looked away and in a corner of the crowded room, sitting on a chair that was not big enough for him, she saw a smallish round gentleman whose head was aslant, his eyes closed and his mouth peacefully open. Troy made for him.

‘Bunchy!’ she said.

Lord Robert Gospell opened his eyes very wide and moved his lips like a rabbit.

‘Hullo!’ he said. ‘What a scrimmage, ain’t it? Pretty good.’

‘You were asleep.’

‘May have been having a nap.’

‘That’s a pretty compliment,’ said Troy without rancour.

‘I had a good prowl first. Just thought I’d pop in,’ explained Lord Robert. ‘Enjoyed myself.’ He balanced his glasses across his nose, flung his head back and with an air of placid approval contemplated a large landscape. Without any of her usual embarrassment Troy looked with him.

‘Pretty good,’ repeated Bunchy. ‘Ain’t it?’

He had an odd trick of using Victorian colloquialisms; legacies, he would explain, from his distinguished father. ‘Lor’!’ was his favourite ejaculation. He kept up little Victorian politenesses, always leaving cards after a ball and often sending flowers to the hostesses who dined him. His clothes were famous—a rather high, close-buttoned jacket and narrowish trousers by day, a soft wide hat and a cloak in the evening. Troy turned from her picture to her companion. He twinkled through his glasses and pointed a fat finger at the landscape.

‘Nice and clean,’ he said. ‘I like ‘em clean. Come and have tea.’

‘I’ve only just arrived,’ said Troy, ‘but I’d love to.’

‘I’ve got the Potters,’ said Bunchy. ‘My sister and her boy. Wait a bit. I’ll fetch ‘em.’

‘Mildred and Donald?’ asked Troy.

‘Mildred and Donald. They live with me, you know, since poor Potter died. Donald’s just been sent down for some gambling scrape or other. Nice young scamp. No harm in him. Only don’t mention Oxford.’

‘I’ll remember.’

‘He’ll probably save you the trouble by talking about it himself. I like having young people about. Gay. Keeps one up to scratch. Can you see ’em anywhere? Mildred’s wearing a puce toque.’

‘Not a toque, Bunchy,’ said Troy. ‘There she is. It’s a very smart purple beret. She’s seen us. She’s coming.’

Lord Robert’s widowed sister came billowing through the crowd followed by her extremely good-looking son. She greeted Troy breathlessly but affectionately. Donald bowed, grinned and said: ‘We have been enjoying ourselves. Frightfully good!’

‘Fat lot you know about it,’ said Troy good-humouredly. ‘Mildred, Bunchy suggests tea.’

‘I must say I should be glad of it,’ said Lady Mildred Potter. ‘Looking at pictures is the most exhausting pastime, even when they are your pictures, dear.’

‘There’s a restaurant down below,’ squeaked Lord Robert. ‘Follow me.’

They worked their way through the crowd and downstairs. Donald who was separated from them by several strangers, shouted: ‘I say, Troy, did you hear I was sent down?’ This had the effect of drawing everyone’s attention first to himself and then to Troy.

‘Yes, I did,’ said Troy severely.

‘Wasn’t it awful?’ continued Donald, coming alongside and speaking more quietly. ‘Uncle Bunch is furious and says I’m no longer The Heir. It’s not true, of course. He’s leaving me a princely fortune, aren’t you, Uncle Bunch, my dear?’

‘Here we are,’ said Lord Robert thankfully as they reached the door of the restaurant. ‘Will you all sit down. I’m afraid I must be rather quick.’ He pulled out his watch and blinked at it. ‘I’ve an appointment in twenty minutes.’

‘Where?’ said Troy. ‘I’ll drive you.’

‘Matter of fact,’ said Lord Robert, ‘it’s at Scotland Yard. Meeting an old friend of mine called Alleyn.’

CHAPTER 2 Bunchy

‘Lord Robert Gospell to see you, Mr Alleyn,’ said a voice in Alleyn’s desk telephone.

‘Bring him up, please,’ said Alleyn.

He pulled a file out of the top drawer and laid it open before him. Then he rang through to his particular Assistant Commissioner.

‘Lord Robert has just arrived, sir. You asked me to let you know.’

‘All right, Rory, I’ll leave him to you, on second thoughts. Fox is here with the report on the Temple case and it’s urgent. Make my apologies. Say I’ll call on him any time that suits him if he thinks it would be any good. You know him, don’t you? Personally, I mean?’

‘Yes. He’s asked for me.’

‘That’s all right, then. Bring him along here if it’s advisable, of course, but I’m snowed under.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Alleyn. A police sergeant tapped, and opened the door. ‘Lord Robert Gospell, sir.’

Lord Robert entered twinkling and a little breathless.

‘Hullo, Roderick. How-de-do,’ he said.

‘Hullo, Bunchy. This is extraordinarily good of you.’

‘Not a bit. Like to keep in touch. Enjoy having a finger in the pie, you know. Always did.’ He sat down and clasped his little hands over his stomach. ‘How’s your mother?’ he asked.

‘She’s very well. She knows we are meeting today and sent you her love.’

‘Thank yer. Delightful woman, your mother. Afraid I’m a bit late. Took tea with another delightful woman.’

‘Did you indeed?’

‘Yes. Agatha Troy. Know her?’

There was a short silence.

‘Yes,’ said Alleyn.

‘Lor’, yes. Of course you do. Didn’t you look after that case where her model was knifed?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Charming,’ said Lord Robert. ‘Ain’t she?’

‘Yes,’ said Alleyn, ‘she is.’

‘I like her awfully. M’sister Mildred and her boy Donald and I had been to Troy’s show. You know m’sister Mildred, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Alleyn, smiling.

‘Yes. No end of a donkey in many ways but a good woman. The boy’s a young dog.’

‘Bunchy,’ said Alleyn, ‘you’re better than Victorian, you’re Regency.’

‘Think so? Tell you what, Roderick, I’ve got to come out of my shell and do the season a bit.’

‘You always do the season, don’t you?’

‘I get about a bit. Enjoy myself. Young Donald’s paying his addresses to a gel called Bridget O’Brien. Know her?’

‘That’s funny,’ said Alleyn. ‘My mama is bringing out brother George’s girl and it appears she’s the bosom friend of Bridget O’Brien. She’s Evelyn and Paddy O’Brien’s daughter, you know.’

‘I know. Called on Evelyn this morning. She married that ass Carrados. Pompous. Clever in the City, I’m told. I had a look at the gel. Nice gel, but there’s something wrong somewhere in that family. Carrados, I suppose. D’you like the gel?’

‘I don’t know her. My niece Sarah likes her.’

‘Look here,’ said Lord Robert, spreading out his hands and staring at them in mild surprise. ‘Look here. Dine with us for Lady C’s dance. Will you? Do.’

‘My dear Bunchy, I’m not asked.’

‘Isn’t your niece goin’?’

‘Yes, I expect she is.’

‘Get you a card. Easy as winking. Do come. Troy’s dining too. Donald and I persuaded her.’

‘Troy,’ said Alleyn. ‘Troy.’

Lord Robert looked sharply at him for about two seconds.

‘Never mind if you’d rather not,’ he said.

‘I can’t tell you how much I should like to come,’ said Alleyn slowly, ‘but you see I’m afraid I might remind Miss Troy of—of that very unpleasant case.’

‘Oh. ‘m. Well, leave it open. Think it over. You’re sure to get a card. Now—what about business?’

He made a funny eager grimace, pursed his lips, and with a deft movement of his hand slung his glasses over his nose. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘We rather think blackmail,’ said Alleyn.

‘Lor’,’ said Lord Robert. ‘Where?’

‘Here, there and everywhere in high society.’

‘How d’yer know?’

‘Well.’ Alleyn laid a thin hand on the file. ‘This is rather more than usually confidential, Bunchy.’

‘Yes, yes, yes. All right. I’ll be as silent,’ said Lord Robert, ‘as the grave. Mum’s the word. Let’s have the names and all the rest of it. None of your Mr and Mrs Xes.’

‘All right. You know Mrs Halcut-Hackett? Old General Halcut-Hackett’s wife?’

‘Yes. American actress. Twenty years younger than H-H. Gorgeous creature.’

‘That’s the one. She came to us last week with a story of blackmail. Here it is in this file. I’ll tell you briefly what she said, but I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with one Madame X.’

‘Phoo!’ said Lord Robert.

‘She told us that a very great woman-friend of hers had confided in her that she was being blackmailed. Mrs H-H wouldn’t give this lady’s name so there’s your Mrs X.’

‘Um,’ said Lord Robert doubtfully. ‘Otherwise Mrs ‘Arris?’

‘Possibly,’ said Alleyn, ‘but that’s the story and I give it to you as Mrs H-H gave it to me. Mrs X, who has an important and imperious husband, received a blackmailing letter on the first of this month. It was written on Woolworth paper. The writer said he or she had possession of an extremely compromising letter written to Mrs X by a man-friend. The writer was willing to sell it for £500. Mrs X’s account is gone into very thoroughly every month by her husband and she was afraid to stump up. In her distress (so the story went) she flew to Mrs Halcut-Hackett who couldn’t provide £500 but persuaded Mrs X to let her come to us with the whole affair. She gave us the letter. Here it is.’

Alleyn laid the file on Lord Robert’s plump little knees. Lord Robert touched his glasses and stared for quite thirty seconds at the first page in the file. He opened his mouth, shut it again, darted a glance at Alleyn, touched his glasses again and finally read under his breath:

‘ “If you would care to buy a letter dated April 20th, written from the Bucks Club addressed to Darling Dodo and signed M., you may do so by leaving £500 in notes of small denomination in your purse behind the picture of the Dutch funeral above the fireplace in the ballroom of Comstock House on the evening of next Monday fortnight.” ’

Lord Robert looked up.

‘That was the night the Comstocks ran their charity bridge-party,’ he said. ‘Big show. Thirty tables. Let’s see, it was last Monday.’

‘It was. On the strength of this letter we saw the Comstocks, told them a fairy-story and asked them to let us send in a man dressed as a waiter. We asked Mrs H-H to get her distressed friend to put the purse full of notes, which we dusted with the usual powder, behind the Dutch funeral. Mrs H-H said she would save her friend much agony and humiliation by doing this office for her.’ Alleyn raised one eyebrow and bestowed a very slow wink upon Lord Robert.

‘Poor thing,’ said Lord Robert.

‘Did she suppose she’d taken you in?’

‘I don’t know. I kept up a polite pretence. Our man, who I may say is a good man, attended the party, saw Mrs H-H tuck away the bag, and waited to see what would happen.’

‘What did happen?’

‘Nothing. Our man was there all night and saw a maid discover the bag next morning, put it unopened on the mantelpiece and call Mrs Comstock’s attention to it. Mrs Comstock, in the presence of our man and the maid, opened it, saw the paper, was surprised, could find nothing to indicate the owner and told the maid to put it aside in case it was asked for.’

‘And what,’ asked Lord Robert, suddenly hugging himself with his short arms, ‘what do you deduce from that, my dear Roderick?’

‘They rumbled our man.’

‘Is it one of the Comstocks’ servants?’

‘The whole show was done by Dimitri, the Shepherd Market caterer. You know who I mean, of course. He does most of the big parties nowadays. Supplies service, food and everything.’

‘One of Dimitri’s men?’

‘We’ve made extremely careful enquiries. They’ve all got splendid references. I’ve actually spoken to Dimitri himself. I told him that there had been one or two thefts lately at large functions and we were bound to make enquiries. He got in no end of a tig, of course, and showed me a mass of references for all his people. We followed them up. They’re genuine enough. He employs the best that can be found in the world. There’s a strict rule that all objects left lying about at these shows should be brought at once to him. He then, himself, looks to see if he can find the owner and in the case of a lost purse or bag returns it in person or else, having seen the contents, sends it by one of his men. He explained that he did this to protect both his men and himself. He always asks the owner to examine a bag the moment it is handed to her.’

‘Still—’

‘I know it’s by no means watertight but we’ve taken a lot of trouble over the Dimitri staff and in my opinion there’s not a likely man among ‘em.’

‘Dimitri himself?’

Alleyn grimaced.

‘Wonders will never cease, my dear Bunchy, but—’

‘Yes, yes, of course, I quite see. He’s a bit too damn grand for those capers, you’d imagine. Anything else?’

‘We’ve been troubled by rumours of blackmail from other sources. You can see the file if you like. Briefly they all point to someone who works in the way suggested by Mrs Halcut-Hackett alias Mrs X. There’s one anonymous letter sent to the Yard, presumably by a victim. It simply says that a blackmailer is at work among society people. Nothing more. We haven’t been able to trace it. Then young Kremorn shot himself the other day and we found out that he had been drawing very large sums in bank-notes for no known reason. His servant said he’d suspected blackmail for some time.’ Alleyn rubbed his nose. ‘It’s the devil. And of all the filthy crimes this to my mind is the filthiest. I don’t mind telling you we’re in a great tig over it.’

‘Bad!’ said Lord Robert, opening his eyes very wide. ‘Disgusting! Where do I come in?’

‘Everywhere, if you will. You’ve helped us before and we’ll be damn glad if you help us again. You go everywhere, Bunchy,’ said Alleyn with a smile at his little friend. ‘You toddle in and out of all the smart houses. Lovely ladies confide in you. Heavy colonels weep on your bosom. See what you can see.’

‘Can’t break confidences, you know, can I! Supposing I get ‘em.’

‘Of course you can’t, but you can do a little quiet investigation on your own account and tell us as much as—’ Alleyn paused and added quickly: ‘As much as a man of integrity may. Will you?’

‘Love to!’ said Lord Robert with a great deal of energy. ‘Matter of fact, but it’d be a rum go if it was—coincidence.’

‘What?’

‘Well. Well, see here, Roderick, this is between ourselves. Thing is, as I told you, I called on Evelyn Carrados this morning. Passing that way and saw a feller selling daffodils so thought I’d take her some. Damn pretty woman, Evelyn, but—’ He screwed up his face. ‘Saddish. Never got over Paddy’s death, if you ask me. Devoted to the gel and the gel to her, but if you ask me Carrados comes the high horse a bit. Great pompous exacting touchy sort of feller, ain’t he? Evelyn was in bed. Snowed under with letters. Secretary. Carrados on the hearth-rug looking injured. Bridget came in later on. Well now. Carrados said he’d be off to the City. Came over to the bed and gave her the sort of kiss a woman doesn’t thank you for. Hand each side of her. Right hand under the pillow.’

Lord Robert’s voice suddenly skipped an octave and became high-pitched. He leant forward with his hands on his knees, looking very earnestly at Alleyn. He moved his lips rather in the manner of a rabbit and then said explosively:

‘It was singular. It was damned odd. He must have touched a letter under her pillow because when he straightened up it was in his right hand—a common-looking envelope addressed in a sort of script—letters like they print ‘em only done by hand.’

Alleyn glanced quickly at the file but said nothing.

‘Carrados said: “Oh, one of your letters, m’dear,” squinting at it through his glass and then putting it down on the counterpane. “Beg pardon,” or something. Thing is, she turned as white as the sheet. I promise you as white as anything, on my honour. And she said: “It’s from one of my lame ducks. I must deal with it,” and slid it under the others. Off he went, and that was that. I talked about their ball and so on and paid my respects and pretended I’d noticed nothing, of course, and, in short, I came away.’

Still Alleyn did not speak. Suddenly Lord Robert jabbed at the letter in the file with his fat finger.

‘Thing is,’ he said most emphatically. ‘Same sort of script.’

‘Exactly the same? I mean, would you swear to the same writer?’

‘No, no! ‘Course not. Only got a glimpse of the other, but I rather fancy myself on handwriting, you know.’