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

by Lynda Wilcox

  His voice sounded wistful, as if he’d prefer his house to fall into rack and ruin if it gave him a reason not to travel to London and spend time away from his beloved country estate.

  “Yes, all right, Dad, though I may not be able to get there for a day or two. I’m actually fairly busy at the moment.”

  “That’s fine, my dear. No hurry.”

  She heard him chuckle as he replaced the receiver and smiled to herself before asking Tilly for another pot of coffee and settling down to work.

  Barbara Lancashire had invited some forty people to the soirée at which her pearls were stolen. There had been sixteen couples and eight singles, and as Eleanor gazed at the list supplied by her client, she mentally crossed off the majority of people on it.

  “Most of these have more than enough jewels already,” she muttered. “I can’t see them stealing Barbara’s pearls.”

  A title did not guarantee that the holder was honest, upright, and rich, but a more boring, sanctimonious crowd than had been at the Lancashires’ Eaton Square home would be hard to imagine.

  Thinking herself lucky not to have been among them, but not relishing the prospect of having to interview them either, Eleanor took a pencil and began putting ticks and crosses against the names. “Sir Marston Montgomery? I don’t think so. He must be seventy if he’s a day. And he’s got gout.”

  “Who has?” Tilly placed a tray with a pot of coffee and a china cup on the table at her mistress’s side.

  “Sir Marston Montgomery, so he’s not going to be climbing walls or even hopping up two flights of stairs. Pfft!

  “I’m going through this list that Barbara Lancashire gave me, trying to work out which of them stole her wretched baubles.” She twirled the pencil around in her fingers. “I’ve bitten off more than I can chew here, Tilly old girl.”

  “Nonsense. You’ll work it out. Will you have to go and speak to all those people?” She pointed at the sheet of paper.

  “Heavens, I hope not.” The idea of making polite, and empty, conversation with Barbara’s choice of guests in the vain hope that she might learn something of use, did not bear thinking about. “However, I think I’ll pay a call on Penelope Studley-Gore this afternoon. It’s a while since I’ve seen her, and she knows Barbara quite well, as I recall.”

  “Very well, my lady, and what about the murder at the Viceroy? I’ve just been reading about that in the morning paper.”

  “What about it?” Eleanor screwed up her face at the memory. “That has nothing to do with me.”

  “Uh huh,” Tilly said. She knew her mistress far too well to be fooled by Eleanor’s casual dismissal. It wouldn’t be long before she started asking who, what, why, and when, and sending her maid out to investigate and ask pertinent — and impertinent — questions of those of Tilly's own class. It had happened before and would happen again before too long. Tilly couldn’t wait.

  “I trust my name didn’t feature in the newspaper?”

  “No, my lady, it didn’t. I went out early and bought a copy of the Daily Banner as that was the newspaper Sir David owned. There’s a small piece about it in the Times, as well, though it’s only a couple of sentences reporting that he was shot in his box at the Viceroy.”

  “It happened too late in the evening to make the earliest editions, no doubt. A blessing in disguise, I suppose, because if the Duke reads my name in his morning paper, I’ll never hear the last of it.”

  Forgetting all about murder, and concentrating instead on the burglary in Belgravia, a few hours later Eleanor drove to Gore House on the other side of Hyde Park.

  Lady Penelope Studley-Gore, an attractive woman a few years older than Eleanor, welcomed her warmly as the butler accompanied the guest into the sitting room.

  “Lady Eleanor Bakewell, my lady,” he announced in a deep voice.

  “Eleanor! How lovely to see you. Do come in.”

  The overfilled room was stuffy and airless. Eleanor loosened her wrap and handed it to the butler.

  “Hello, Penny. How are you? I hear you’ve not been well.”

  “No indeed,” said her hostess. After standing to greet and embrace her guest, she reclined once more upon her chaise longue. “I had a very nasty bout of influenza late last year, and barely made it through Christmas.”

  “Then I hope you are better now.” Eleanor removed her gloves, and put them in her bag, then took a seat opposite her friend.

  “Oh much, thank you. Peregrine took me off in the New Year to the South of France to recuperate. We only returned last week.”

  Eleanor’s main purpose in visiting Lady Studley-Gore was to enquire into her friend’s health and well-being. She considered it vitally important that her secondary motive remain hidden. Not unnaturally, her client had insisted on her business being confidential between the two of them and, although it placed Eleanor in something of a bind, she had to respect that and find other means than the direct approach to obtain information.

  A little general chit-chat, steered in the right direction, might do the trick, and Eleanor was never averse to spending time with those she cherished.

  “Whereabouts did you go?” she asked.

  “Oh, Menton, of course, though we went to Monte Carlo a couple of times. Perry won a bit of money in the casino there, but then I always said he was a lucky man.”

  “To have married you, you mean?”

  Penelope smiled at the quip. “Oh yes, but let’s keep that between ourselves, shall we?”

  “Oh, I rather think he knows that already.” Sir Peregrine Studley-Gore would be a fool if he didn’t realise what a clever and beautiful wife he had and Eleanor, who knew and liked him, did not think him a fool. “Did you do anything exciting in Menton, or was it just for rest and recuperation?”

  “It’s funny you should say that, given what I’ve been reading in this morning’s paper.” Penelope swung her feet to the floor and sat up. She put out a hand towards Eleanor. “You’ll never believe this, but we went to a party on Sir David Bristol’s yacht. Did you know he’d been murdered?”

  Despite the warmth and stuffiness of the room, Eleanor felt a cold hand clutch at her heart. Just by discovering his body she’d already had far too much involvement in Sir David’s death for her liking. She wanted nothing more to do with it. Already his murder was the topic of conversation on everyone’s lips.

  How could she possibly stay out of it?

  Chapter 5

  “Eleanor! Eleanor, are you all right?”

  Penelope’s voice cut through the pounding and ringing in Eleanor’s ears and she lifted her head and took a deep breath, pushing away thoughts of murder.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “You looked awfully pale there, for a moment. I thought you were going to faint. I’ll ring for some tea.”

  “Tea would be lovely, but I’m all right, really I am. Tell me more about this party you went to.”

  Penelope rang for refreshments, then grinned and rubbed her hands together at the prospect of a good gossip. “It was very swish, darling. I wore the Studley-Gore emeralds and a dress designed by Coco Chanel, no less, and I still felt underdressed in comparison to some others.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “Oh, there were loads of people.” She tapped a forefinger against her chin. “I’m just trying to think who you would know.”

  She reeled off a list of names, most of them familiar to Eleanor even if she’d never actually met them — foreign statesmen, film stars, and famous sports players, for the most part — but Penelope surprised her guest by saying, “Oh, that barrister chappie, Sir Petrie Carew, and the Lancashires were on board, too.”

  “Sir Robert and Lady Barbara?”

  “Yes. Thankfully, I managed to avoid them.”

  “Don’t you care for them?”

  “Oh, he’s all right.” Penelope waved a hand as if dismissing the male half of the marriage. “It’s Barbara I’m not so fond of. Her husband may be attached to the Foreign Office, but she c
ould bore for England. I have to say, though, that she was strangely quiet that evening, She looked nervous and worried, if you know what I mean.”

  “Perhaps she suffers from sea-sickness.”

  “Don’t be silly, darling, the boat was moored. We didn’t go out for an evening cruise. We stayed strictly landlocked.”

  “Or she was scared of losing her pearls.”

  The comment slipped out and Eleanor tried to make light of it when she saw Penelope’s puzzled look.

  “It was just a joke. I understand she wears them a lot, that’s all.”

  “She was wearing pearls that night, come to think of it. A rather nice double string. I thought they might have been her sister’s.”

  “She has a sister?”

  This was news to Eleanor and she pricked up her ears, but the arrival of the tea put a brake on the conversation and it wasn’t until Penelope had poured and they were alone again, that they resumed their chat.

  “I didn’t know Lady Barbara had a sister.”

  “Oh, yes, though Barbara thinks she married beneath her and doesn’t have much to do with her.”

  “Do you know her?”

  Penelope shook her head and stirred sugar into her tea. “Only slightly. We were on the same charity committee at one time, until I gave it up. Her name is Marjorie Arbuthnot, she’s Barbara’s younger sister. Their father made a fortune before the war as a tea importer, or something of that ilk.” She gave an apologetic look, “I’m no good at remembering what people do. Do you want an introduction? She’s much nicer than Barbara and does a lot of work for the Rehabilitation Society, that charity I mentioned.”

  “Hmm? Who, or what do they rehabilitate?” Eleanor sipped her tea.

  Penelope grimaced. “Well, it started out as an attempt to rehabilitate criminals, showing them the error of their ways by getting them gainful employment. After the war, it turned its attention to ex-servicemen and orphans.”

  “Orphans? How do you rehabilitate an orphan? Unless they think that adoption is a form of rehabilitation, though it seems an odd idea to me.”

  “Yes, things got very confused. They seemed to want to be all things to all people, if you understand me, and it was around that time that I cut my ties to them.” She rose to her feet and crossed to a bureau underneath the window. “I kept Marjorie’s address though, and I’ll copy it out for you.”

  Eleanor took the piece of notepaper that Penelope gave her when she resumed her seat, and slipped it into her bag with a murmur of thanks.

  “You’re welcome. Do pass on my greetings should you contact her. Now what about you, Eleanor? You look in blooming good health, I’m delighted to say.”

  “Yes, thank you, I’m fine, though I am looking forward to Spring. I’ve also been persuaded to take on gainful employment, though I'm not in need of rehabilitation, thank goodness.”

  “Really? I hope things aren’t...difficult for you.”

  Eleanor hid a smile at her friend’s tact. It never ceased to amaze her how the upper classes hated the very mention of money, without in any way being able to do without it.

  “No, no. It’s more a means to alleviate galloping boredom than galloping debt. Fortunately, my finances are healthy and I just needed an outlet for my energies. Besides, a lot of women are taking on jobs these days. My friend, Lady Ann Carstairs, works as a very successful party organizer. Things aren’t as restrictive for women as they used to be before the war.”

  Penelope flicked at her dark fringe and inspected a perfectly manicured fingernail. “So, what is it you’re doing?”

  “I’ve become a Private Enquiry agent.”

  “Really? That sounds fascinating and it should be something you’re good at. You always were...um...”

  “Nosy?” Eleanor laughed.

  “I was going to say, of an enquiring mind.” She grinned. “You like to know things. So, how is it going?”

  “Oh, it’s early days, yet. I’ve only just got my first client.”

  “Oo-oh. Am I allowed to know who it is?”

  Eleanor wrinkled her nose. Knowing what gossips people were — especially Penelope — it was a question to which she had given much thought. She had promised her client discretion, and that was obviously called for, but if she was to learn anything helpful, she would have to give out some information, or she would get precisely nowhere. For the moment, though, she remained determined to give nothing away.

  “Sorry, Penelope, it’s very confidential. I’m sure you understand. After all, in the unlikely event that you had need of my services, you wouldn’t want me telling everyone about it, would you.”

  “No, I suppose not.” She looked disappointed and changed the subject.

  “You know, Perry has been such a rock for me while I’ve been ill. I don’t know what I would have done without him. What about you? When are you going to find a husband and settle down?”

  Eleanor laughed and waved a finger at her friend. “Be careful, darling, you’re beginning to sound awfully like my mother.”

  “Oh, well, we don’t want that.” Penelope joined in with the laughter. “Seriously, though, is there a man in your life at the moment?”

  Not in the way that she meant, and Eleanor shied away from thoughts of a certain Major in Military Intelligence who kept trying to recruit her.

  “No, I’m footloose and fancy free, thank heavens. I’m enjoying life as a single girl, despite everyone’s attempts to marry me off into a life of domestic boredom and uselessness. I have places to go, and things to do and see before I settle down, as you put it.”

  Penelope tilted her head and looked sharply at her guest. “You could end up an old maid that way.”

  “So? I won’t be on my own. With so many of our men killed in the war...”

  “Exactly! You find yourself a husband, my dear, before it’s too late and they’re all snapped up.”

  It wasn’t that Eleanor had no time for men, quite the contrary. She just didn’t want to be chained to one for the rest of her life — at least not yet. So many of her friends had married and become nothing more than an adjunct to their husband’s lives, expected to do little more than play hostess to his friends and look good on his arm.

  That would not do for Eleanor.

  To her, a marriage was not about being subservient to a man, but a coming together of minds as well as bodies, a sharing of interests as well as a marriage bed.

  Besides, a lot of men might want to marry her simply because she was a duke’s daughter, with all the prestige and influence that might supposedly bring with it. Suppressing a shiver at the thought, she smiled brightly at Penelope.

  “If it makes you happy, then I promise I’ll keep looking. Just don’t expect it to happen any time soon. Although,” she added, struck by a sudden, horrid thought, “Papa is talking about bringing Mother down for the season and opening up Bakewell House again.”

  “Ah ha! So, there will be parties and balls with lots of eligible young men.” Penelope grinned. “I’m looking forward to it already.”

  “If they are that eligible I shall take them all as lovers, then.”

  “Eleanor! Really!”

  “Oh, I’m only joking. Don’t worry, I won’t do it simultaneously, darling.”

  Penelope flapped a hand. “Get away with you, you wicked thing, but that’s reminded me. Guess who Sir David Bristol wasn’t with on his yacht in Menton.”

  Eleanor shook her head, baffled. “No idea. Deanna Dacre?”

  “Precisely!” Penelope leant forward, the better to pass on what she clearly considered an exciting, and scandalous bit of gossip. “She was in London rehearsing for the opening night of her new play, apparently. Have you seen it? Perry and I went the other evening, and she’s divine.”

  Eleanor picked her words with care, guarding against giving too much away lest Penelope demand chapter and verse of the murder and she’d never get out of there until dinner time.

  “Yes, I’ve seen it.”

  “Well,
anyway, he was flaunting, and flirting with, a Russian countess, Vera Ivanova. It was quite flagrant. She couldn’t leave him alone.”

  “I know the sort. He pours the drinks and she pours herself all over him.”

  Penelope laughed and clapped her hands. “Exactly. Some wag remarked that he hadn’t bothered to dress for the evening, he was simply wearing the countess. It caused quite a stir, I can tell you. More tea?”

  “No — I mean yes. Thank you.”

  The ‘no’ had been to herself, trying to decline and deny any interest in Bristol’s murder. But, while one part of her mind was telling her that it had nothing to do with Eleanor Bakewell, and that Eleanor Bakewell was not, under any circumstances, getting involved, the other part was yelling that Deanna Dacre now had a motive.

  Impossible, she thought. The woman was on the stage in full view of a packed theatre all hanging on her every word, expression, posture, and hand movement. There was no way she could simultaneously commit murder.

  She passed her cup and saucer over to Penelope. “I wonder if Deanna knew her backer was playing the field.”

  “Somebody might have told her. There were enough people on the yacht that evening, and that sort of news would travel quickly. Gossip always does.”

  “Do you think he was serious about the Countess Ivanova?”

  “Heavens no, but I bet if she’s heard, the Dacre woman is furious.”

  Chapter 6

  After her interview with Lady Penelope, Eleanor decided on a quiet night at home. There was time yet to call on Marjorie Arbuthnot and the others on Lady Barbara’s guest list. In the meantime, she would enjoy Tilly’s excellent roast chicken, relax, and read her book.

  Like all the best laid plans, though, this one took its own divergent path almost as soon as she’d finished her meal.