A Burglary In Belgravia (The Lady Eleanor Mysteries Book 2)

by Lynda Wilcox

  A Burglary in Belgravia

  by

  Lynda Wilcox

  Copyright © 2019 by Lynda Wilcox. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or parts thereof, in any form.

  All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 1

  Lady Eleanor Bakewell’s blonde head bent over the letter again as she read it for the third time. There was no doubt about it. The heavy lavender notepaper with its embossed crest and rounded handwriting proved that the discreet advertisement that she had placed, both in The Times newspaper and The Lady magazine, had borne fruit.

  It had taken a lot of heart-searching before she had decided to offer her services as a private enquiry agent. It wasn’t so much that she needed the small amount of money she might earn from her endeavours, more an effort to relieve the boredom of post-war life, with its apparently ceaseless round of parties, its vacuous conversations, its sense of futility.

  Her recent brush with murder and espionage had reawakened the excitement of those few months in enemy territory before the Armistice was signed. It had been terrifying and, yes, thrilling and given her a sense of purpose in what she thought of as an otherwise empty existence.

  She poured more coffee, bit into her toast and read the letter again.

  Further to your advertisement in The Times, Lady Barbara Lancashire requests that Miss LEB call on her as a matter of some urgency.

  I trust that I can rely on your discretion — as mentioned in the advertisement — and request that you do not discuss this request, or anything that may transpire from calling upon me, with other persons.

  Eleanor scowled. Not wanting to put her real name in the advert, she had simply used her initials and a box number supplied by the newspaper. Now she wondered whether she had done the right thing and what Lady Lancashire would make of having the daughter of no less a person than the Duke of Bakewell investigating on her behalf.

  It was too late to worry about that now. Ignoring the strictures placed on her in Lady Lancashire’s last paragraph, she called her maid.

  “Tilly! Will you come in here a minute, please?”

  The short, slim figure appeared from the kitchen. A streak of flour marked her forehead and one cheek.

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “Listen to this, will you? It’s from Barbara, Lady Lancashire, in response to that advert I placed in the Times.”

  She read it out and laid the sheet down next to her plate. “She finishes off with, ‘Yours truly’. What do you make of that?”

  Tilly shrugged. Well used to being in her mistress’s confidence, she knew it was a serious question. “It’s hard to say, but I would think that anyone who reckons they need a private enquiry agent wouldn’t want the world and his wife getting to hear about it. Everyone who answers the advert is going to insist on that.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Do you know the lady”

  “Barbara Lancashire? Oh yes, though not intimately. She’s a crashing bore who insists on her title, though she only got it by marrying Sir Robert Lancashire, a senior civil servant in the Foreign Office. I’ve always avoided her like the plague.”

  “Are you going to avoid that, then?” Tilly pointed at the letter.

  “I don’t see that I can. As she says it’s urgent, I’d better call on her this afternoon. I’ll wear the blue foulard dress. It’s smart enough for business without making me look like a tradesman, and I’ll probably need my fur trimmed wrap.” She craned to see out of the window. “Is it snowing again, out there?”

  “No, my lady. It looks slushy underfoot, though, so I’ll get your boots ready. Are you thinking of walking or taking the car?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about that. I suppose it will look more impressive if I drive there in the Lagonda.”

  “Yes, my lady, and a good first impression may be important.”

  Thus it was that at three-thirty that afternoon, Eleanor drove to Belgravia and rang the doorbell of the stately house in Eaton Square.

  To say that Lady Lancashire was surprised to discover the real identity of the person she had addressed as Miss LEB would be an understatement. She flapped about in an agony of social nicety and protocol, unsure how to greet her guest and clearly thinking her unsuited to the delicate task she had in mind.

  The servant who had accompanied Eleanor to the elegant drawing room on the first floor was asked to provide tea, then the dithering Lady Lancashire waved her guest to a chair while she remained standing by the fireplace.

  Barbara was a matronly woman with a deep bosom, a mass of dark hair worn in an elaborate chignon, and an inflated sense of her own importance. She surveyed Eleanor with a hostile stare.

  “Well, really,” she remarked, in the tone of a petulant child, “this is most unexpected. This isn’t some kind of joke is it? Some jest thought up by you bright young things?”

  “Assuredly not, your ladyship.”

  Eleanor was not unfeeling, but it was only now that she began to realise the slippery nature of the enterprise on which she had embarked. Lady Lancashire would not appreciate the thought of being used only to alleviate Eleanor’s boredom. In vain did the younger woman search her wits for a plausible reason for her presence at Eaton Square, or for placing the advertisement in the first place.

  Inspiration came in the shape of a large framed photograph on a side table. It had been taken on the occasion of the Lancashires’ wedding, and showed the happy couple arm in arm outside a church door. It reminded her of a conversation she’d had with her mother the previous Christmas.

  Svetlana, the duchess, a former Russian ballet dancer of some renown, had considered her only daughter to be in need of a husband and, at twenty-four years old, well past marriageable age.

  “I feel sure that whatever you may require of a private enquiry agent would involve the disclosure of confidences on your part. So, let me start with one of my own.”

  Lady Lancashire lifted an eyebrow, but Eleanor was given a few moments grace by the arrival of the tea things. Only when the footman had left and she held a dainty china cup and saucer in her hands, did she continue.

  She gave her hostess a brief outline of events on the previous New Year’s Eve, concerning the murder of a visiting American millionaire. Events in which Eleanor was deeply involved, though she made no mention of her part in apprehending the two foreign agents who had hoped to rob the American of secret documents.

  Her account was punctuated throughout by Lady Lancashire’s muttered comments — “Dear me” being the most common — and many tuts and sighs.

  “I must also add that my parents are anxious to see me married, and have chosen a young man that I consider entirely unsuitable. However, my father is a reasonable man, and has assured me
that if I can support myself through my own efforts for at least six months, then he won’t press me further.” Eleanor fluttered her eyelashes and, although there was some truth in the statement, hoped that Lady Barbara would swallow the part that was untrue, simply by virtue of mentioning the Duke.

  The ruse seemed to work. Lady Lancashire nodded her head a few times and Eleanor pressed home her advantage.

  “So, you see, I do have a valid reason for finding myself genteel employment of some kind, and I do have experience of dealing with the police should any crime be involved. And my antecedents are impeccable.” She finished with a flourish, and her hostess beamed.

  “Oh, yes, well of course.”

  The woman opposite almost simpered and Eleanor lowered her voice, attempting to put her prospective client at her ease

  “Now, why don’t you tell me what it is you’d like me to do for you, Lady Lancashire? How may I help you?”

  Lady Barbara puckered her brow and spread her hands.

  “Oh, dear, this is most uncomfortable, but you see, the other evening I held a small soirée for just a few friends. There were about twenty to thirty people here, all told. All of them are known to me, even the colleagues of my husband, and their wives.”

  “Go on,” Eleanor murmured.

  “Well, as I was getting ready for bed, I put my jewellery away in its case, only to discover that my pearls were missing.”

  “And you think one of your guests might have taken them?”

  “Well, at first, I assumed there had been a burglary. My dressing room window had been open when I entered. I’d simply closed it.”

  “Would it normally be open in this weather and at that time of night?”

  “No, you’re right, of course, and I noticed the chill in the room as soon as I went in. I suppose I shut it without thinking, as a natural reaction to the cold. Afterwards, once I’d discovered my pearls were gone, I re-opened the window and looked outside, but there was nothing to see – only the wall, and that falls sheer to the ground three storeys below. Nobody could have climbed up that way.”

  “Perhaps I can have a look myself, later? In the meantime, please continue.”

  “Well, there’s nothing more to tell. My pearls have been stolen and I need to get them back.” She twisted her long fingers together in her lap. “It’s absolutely vital that I have them returned.”

  Her agitation increased. Eleanor wondered at the cause of it.

  “I take it that you have not informed the police?”

  “Certainly not!” Lady Lancashire compressed her fleshy lips into a thin line. Then her expression softened and saddened. “How could I? If one of our guests is responsible...”

  She let the thought hang.

  “Oh, I quite see your dilemma. What about your staff? Could one of them have stolen your pearls?”

  “Impossible. They’ve been with us for years.”

  That neither precluded nor exonerated them in Eleanor’s book. “But if one of them was in urgent need of money, they might have fallen to temptation, especially as you had a house full of guests at the time. With that amount of people milling around, someone could have slipped away upstairs, probably unseen and certainly unnoticed.” She took a sip of tea. “Or do you suspect one of your guests, rather than your staff, of doing that?”

  “Well, obviously, I’d never dream of accusing them, and I have no intention of prosecuting. I just need my pearls returned.”

  Eleanor eyed her hostess keenly. Her agitation was again apparent in the twisting of the fingers.

  “I will do what I can. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to describe the necklace to me.”

  “They are priceless, given to me on the eve of my coming out at the debutante ball in 1898. I wore them, then, for the first time. The necklace is a double string of perfectly matched pearls with a very distinctive clasp. It is in the shape of a rose, that being my maiden name, and the necklace can be worn with the clasp on either shoulder.” Her never still hands sketched the form of a rose and flew to her neckline as a means to demonstrate her words. “It is, as you can imagine, unique.”

  At Eleanor’s request, Lady Lancashire showed her upstairs to her dressing room.

  “The only access is through the bedroom.” Her ladyship opened a door at the top of the stairs on the second landing, and strode on into the room beyond.

  Eleanor caught a glimpse of the monstrous double bed with its embroidered satin quilt and drapes in shades of blue and green that dominated the room. The colour scheme was too reminiscent of being underwater for Eleanor to feel comfortable sleeping there and she hurried into the dressing room.

  Lady Lancashire’s private bower contained a large dressing table with a triptych mirror, two heavy wooden wardrobes, a stool and a small chest of drawers. The room’s single window lay along the right-hand wall.

  Eleanor took it all in with one sweeping glance, agreed with her hostess that a burglar had not got in through the window, and asked where she kept her jewels.

  In answer she was shown a locked jewel case at the bottom of one of the wardrobes. She squatted down to inspect it.

  “The lock does not appear to have been forced,” she remarked.

  Lady Lancashire flushed. “No. I opened it to take out the ruby necklace that I wore that night, then I closed it without locking it. I thought it safe enough in my wardrobe.”

  Eleanor had been about to ask which of Barbara’s so-called friends knew where she kept her jewel case, then changed her mind. The question would probably offend her ladyship, and a cursory search of the dressing room would soon have found it.

  They returned to the drawing room and Eleanor took possession of the list of invitees to Lady Lancashire’s soirée. She kept her face blank as she scanned the names.

  “I will do my best, my lady, though I make you no promises as I’m sure you appreciate what a difficult task you have set me. However, I am at the theatre this evening and will make a start then as I know that at least one person here” — she flicked the list in her hand — “will be at the Viceroy to see Deanna Dacre.”

  The young actress was currently taking London by storm, in a new play written specially for her. The critics had been full of praise for her performance. As a result, everyone wanted to see her, including Sir Robert Lancashire and his wife, it seemed.

  “And so will we. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Then no doubt I shall see you there.” Eleanor smiled and held out a hand. “I shall be in touch.”

  The smile had vanished by the time she reached the street and took her seat at the wheel of the Lagonda. Her very first commission might yet prove an impossible task.

  Chapter 2

  The foyer of the Viceroy theatre was crammed with the cream of high society when Eleanor arrived and looked around for her friend Lady Ann Carstairs.

  She had booked a box in the lower circle for her and Ann and several of their friends. Even the Dowager Duchess of Selsdon had inveigled herself a seat and, if history were anything to go by, would sit quietly nodding at the end of the front row by the time they had reached the interval between the first and second acts.

  As Eleanor’s gaze passed over the throng she glanced at every neckline on show. She told herself it was a pointless exercise — whoever had stolen Lady Lancashire’s pearls would not turn up at the theatre and flaunt them so brazenly — yet somehow she could not help it. The Viceroy glittered with more gems than you could shake a stick at. Diamonds, emeralds, sapphires and rubies were everywhere, as too were pearls, glittering under the light of the chandeliers.

  Eleanor’s own neck was unadorned and she had begun to feel underdressed for the occasion. She said as much to Ann when they met up at the bottom of the wide staircase, blonde head against the dark one as they touched cheeks.

  “Darling, you look wonderful,” cried Ann.

  “I’m not wearing any jewellery and I feel rather naked as a result.”

  Ann offered her usual comfort. “I shouldn
’t worry,” she said. “Most of what’s on show tonight is paste, anyway.”

  Thinking it a joke, Eleanor laughed. “Surely not.”

  “Oh, it is. I’m not kidding. Anyone with any sense has their heirlooms and family treasure locked away at the bank. The rest have them in hock.”

  “Really?”

  Was that where Lady Lancashire’s pearls had ended up? At a pawnbroker’s?

  “Especially now.”

  “Especially now, what?” Eleanor asked.

  “With all these jewel robberies happening, silly?”

  Eleanor paused at the top of the stairs to the lower circle and stared at her friend. “What robberies?”

  Ann threw her a look of disgust. “Call yourself a detective? Oh, I’ll admit that there’s been nothing about it in the newspapers. The Daily Banner and the Clarion haven’t carried a single report of jewel thefts, so people are obviously keeping quiet about it, but even the Scarsby emeralds are said to have been stolen. Not that Diana Scarsby’s admitting it, of course.”

  Eleanor knew so little about crime and the shady underworld behind it, that she quailed for a moment at the thought of what she had undertaken. What expertise, what knowledge, what right did she have to call herself a private enquiry agent?

  Barbara Lancashire had implied that the job Eleanor had advertised was an unsuitable one for a duke’s daughter. Now, in the interim between accepting the commission and her arrival at the Viceroy, that same duke’s daughter had convinced herself the task was beyond her.

  She sighed and brushed her doubts aside, aware that Ann was tugging at her arm.

  “Then how —”

  Eleanor’s question was never answered for at that moment they entered the box and were greeted by the other occupants. A short time later, they all took their seats, the house lights dimmed, and the curtain rose for the start of the play.

  Despite not being that interested in straight drama, preferring to watch comedy or go to the ballet, Eleanor found herself enthralled, at least at first.

  “She’s ever so good, isn’t she?” Ann enthused. “And it’s the perfect role for her.”