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

by Lynda Wilcox

  She resumed her seat. “My father spent all his life in the tea trade. He had no title, though he rose to be the chairman of the Guild of Tea Importers and Merchants. By his standards, and mine come to that, he grew to be a wealthy man.

  “Unfortunately for him, he had no son, but he did have three daughters, Barbara, myself, and Amy. She died young, but not before Father had commissioned three identical pearl necklaces for us. His idea was that he would present them to us and we would wear them at our coming out parties.”

  She reached for the coffee pot and refilled her cup, then swung the pot in Eleanor’s direction.

  “No, thank you, I’m fine.”

  Marjorie put the pot down and passed the photograph to her guest. “Here we are wearing them.” She poured cream into her coffee, picked up the cup, and sat back. “It was the first and last time I ever wore them. I appreciate that it makes me sound like a dreadful ingrate, and if the necklaces had all been different from one another, then I would have worn mine gladly, but there was no way I was going to wear it for my coming out do and have everybody thinking that I had borrowed Barbara’s pearls. I wore enough of her hand-me-down stuff as it was.”

  “Have you still got them?”

  “No, when Father gave them to me, he said they were mine, unconditionally, so I sold them when Geoffrey and I were married and used the money to buy this house.”

  That was a pity.

  Eleanor clearly remembered the interview with her client regarding the necklace. Lady Lancashire had been quite vehement about it, and her words had been very specific. She hadn’t said ‘I want it back’, but ‘I need it back’. Only now did Eleanor come to wonder at the choice of words.

  If the need was that great, then it might have been possible to have borrowed Marjorie’s. Unless...

  “Does Lady Lancashire know that you parted with it?”

  “Yes, I rather think she does.”

  “And the third necklace?”

  “Was buried with Amy.”

  “I see.”

  Eleanor looked at the photograph closely. It must have been taken shortly after the necklaces were bought. It showed Marjorie, perhaps in her mid-teens, standing between Barbara and a younger girl.

  The necklaces showed up well in the photo, perhaps the photographer had been told to focus on that, though none of it was blurry, and Eleanor could clearly make out the double string of matched pearls and the rose shaped clasp.

  It did not come as a surprise to see that Marjorie wore hers with the clasp on the left side of her neck, but her sisters had theirs on the right.

  At least Eleanor now knew what she was looking for.

  “Beautiful,” she remarked, “both the three of you and the necklaces.”

  “Thank you.” Marjorie took the photograph from Eleanor’s outstretched hand, gave it a cursory glance, and twisting in her seat, placed it on a bookcase behind her chair. She turned back, a thoughtful look on her face.

  “I’m sure the necklaces cost Father a lot of money, although he could well afford it. His idea was that we should think of them as family heirlooms.”

  “Do you ever regret selling yours?”

  Marjorie shook her head. “No, never. It isn’t my parents’ fault that I’m the middle one of three, caught between the eldest and the baby. I tried not to resent it, that Barbara had everything before me and that the best was reserved for her. Then, when Amy became ill — consumption, you know — they lavished all their love, their energies, on her. I always seemed to be the forgotten one.”

  “It’s often the way,” Eleanor murmured. “I can understand your resentment.”

  “I’ll admit I took it out on Barbara the most. That sort of one-sided treatment made me look for scapegoats and I could hardly blame poor Amy, especially with the comments Barbara began making when I started stepping out with, and then got engaged to, Geoffrey. I’m afraid we really fell out over that and I didn’t invite her to our wedding.”

  “And you sold your necklace?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember who to?”

  Marjorie put her cup down upon its saucer with a crash. “Don’t tell me my sainted sister has sent you around here to buy it. What’s happened to her own? Or does she just want two? Bah! What will she do then? Try and dig up the third?”

  Eleanor bit back a gasp of surprise and annoyance. Perhaps she wasn’t cut out for the role of an enquiry agent, after all. She had thought her question innocent enough and hadn’t expected Marjorie to fly off the handle like she did. She had to admit that she was being intrusive, but how else to do the job?

  “No, no, Mrs Arbuthnot,” she said in a soft voice. “That is not the reason for my call. Please do not upset yourself.”

  Marjorie put her head in her hands and kneaded her forehead.

  “I’m sorry, your Ladyship. Sometimes, just the mere mention of my sister is enough to make me feel hateful and murderous. I should not have snapped at you like that. Please forgive the appalling lapse in my behaviour.”

  “Not at all. It is I who should apologise for calling on you unannounced and asking questions on a subject clearly painful to you.”

  Marjorie gave a sudden bark of laughter as surprising, given the outburst that preceded it, as it was welcome. “A painful subject is a wonderful description of my sister, so you are doubly forgiven.” She picked up her cup, saw that it was empty and put it down again. “Anyway, in answer to your question, I sold it back to the jeweller who made it. I can’t now remember the name. I do recall that it was still in its box which had the initials GG upon it, and the shop was somewhere off Jermyn Street.” She stopped and ran a forefinger across her lips. “No, it’s gone. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific than that.”

  Feeling that she had outstayed her welcome, Eleanor thanked her hostess and took her leave, no closer to laying her hands on Barbara's necklace than before.

  Chapter 8

  When her search for the jeweller responsible for crafting the three necklaces proved fruitless, Eleanor decided to have lunch in Simpson’s in the Strand before driving back home.

  She dropped the car off and walked around to the front of the building, where an attractive young man in his late twenties waited on the steps of Bellevue Mansions. He held the door open for her and swiftly followed her inside.

  “Lady Eleanor Bakewell, is it? I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes? Danny Danvers, Daily Banner.”

  He thrust out a hand which Eleanor ignored.

  “What do you want with me, Mr Danvers?”

  “Oh, please, call me Danny. It’s my readers, your ladyship. They want your story.”

  Eleanor raised a solitary eyebrow. “They do, do they?”

  “Yes. You know, terror of the beautiful lady who discovered body of murdered newspaper proprietor. Oh yes, they’ll lap that up. That’s the sort of story they want.”

  He smiled in what he no doubt thought was a winning manner. It failed to win over Eleanor, who wanted nothing more than a strong drink and a modicum of peace and quiet.

  “My mother always taught me that ‘I want gets nothing’. Good day to you, Mr Danvers.”

  She turned on her heel, prepared to walk off and leave him in the lobby.

  “Please, your ladyship. I could do with your help.”

  “What? To write scurrilous drivel? I don’t think so.”

  “No, not that.” He ran a hand down his cheek, and Eleanor noticed the haggard look around his eyes. “I need your help to clear my name. The police think I killed my boss.”

  Eleanor gave him a searching look. He didn’t flinch.

  It might be true, she reflected, and if it was then she stood to learn as much from him as he might from her. Just as long as her name did not appear all over the Daily Banner.

  “All right,” she said. “You’d better come up, but behave yourself. My maid is both armed, and a crack shot.”

  She opened the door with her key and went in. “I’m home, Tilly, and we
have company.”

  Tilly hurried in, a smile of welcome on her round face as she took their coats.

  “Take a seat, Mr Danvers. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Thank you. A whisky, please.” He pulled a reporter’s notepad and a pencil from his jacket pocket and sat in the chair Eleanor had indicated.

  As she fixed their drinks, Eleanor took stock of her guest. His slim torso and long limbs made him appear boyish and gangly, as if he had still to grow into his body. Under a mop of curly brown hair, eyes of the same colour surveyed the drawing room and appeared to find it to his liking. He relaxed in front of the fire, smiling in an open, almost impish fashion when she handed him his drink.

  “Thank you.”

  Eleanor sat opposite and raised her own tumbler in salutation. “So, why do the police think you murdered Sir David Bristol, Mr Danvers?”

  “Please call me Danny. Mr Danvers seems very formal.” He crossed one leg over the other and took a pull of his drink. “I have a friend in this business who knows you. He said you weren’t at all stand-offish, yet here I am feeling a little cowed.”

  Eleanor raised an eyebrow. She couldn’t imagine anyone cowing the confident young man from the Daily Banner.

  “And what friend might that be?”

  “He’s a chap by the name of Tommy Totteridge. He works for the Daily Clarion.”

  “Yes, I know Tommy.” But did Totters, as he was known to close friends such as Eleanor, really know Danny Danvers, or was that young man chancing his luck? For now she would give him the benefit of the doubt, and make sure she checked with Tommy later.

  “Well, there you are then.”

  “Yes, and still waiting for a reply to my question. Why do the police think you murdered your boss? What do they have to go on?”

  Danvers didn’t look so comfortable all of a sudden. He positively squirmed in his chair and with a quick nervous movement, took out a cigarette case. He opened it and offered it to Eleanor. She shook her head, waiting.

  “I had a row with Bristol on the day of his death. He’d promised me that when the Banner’s Chief Crime Reporter retired, which he is due to do at the end of this month, that I could step up and have his job.” He lit his cigarette and blew smoke upwards.

  “And?”

  “And I discovered that the smarmy duplicitous worm had given the job to someone else, one of his cronies as it turns out.”

  That seemed unlikely. From what Eleanor knew of him, Sir David Bristol was not the sort to number reporters, even Chief Crime Reporters, among his friends. He was more likely to be found rubbing shoulders with the nobility or government ministers than hobnobbing with the sons of toil.

  “That’s hardly a reason to murder someone.”

  “Exactly.” Danvers slapped one hand on his knee. “That’s exactly what I told that pig-headed Chief Inspector, but he’s disinclined to believe me, it seems.”

  Blount was no fool. He must have something to go on if he was making accusations. Unless Danvers was lying and using it as an excuse to worm his way into Eleanor’s good graces.

  “And what is it that you think I can do about that, Danny? Why have you come to me?”

  “Because you found him.” He looked sheepish. “I’m sorry, I wormed your name out of the manager at the Viceroy. I admit that was reprehensible on my part, but I needed to know more about Bristol’s death than the police are letting on.”

  “So you can print it in your paper, with your byline and make a name for yourself? I don’t think so.”

  “Nothing of the sort.” He threw the remains of his cigarette into the fire. “You have a very low opinion of me for saying we’ve never met before.”

  With the exception of Tommy Totteridge, Eleanor did not think much of most journalists and reporters. She certainly wouldn’t ascribe probity and self-sacrifice to anyone that worked for the more disreputable newspapers, and she counted the Daily Banner in that number. Besides, he had accosted her within her own building, inveigled his way into her home, and now sat drinking her whisky. Why should she trust him?

  As if he had divined her thoughts, Danvers suddenly nodded. He leaned forward. “I know we reporters have a bad name — some, at least — and if any paper should have an exclusive on Bristol’s murder, then it should surely be his own, but that isn’t what I’m after. I am innocent of the man’s murder, and I need to prove that to the chaps at Scotland Yard.”

  Was he really that naive? Eleanor wondered about his background and the length of time he’d been doing the job of crime reporter.

  “Has it not occurred to you, that your very lack of knowledge about Sir David’s killing, is proof enough that you had nothing to do with it?”

  Danny squirmed in his chair and gulped more whisky. “Ah, well, you see, I’d told everyone in the office that I was going to have it out with him. I even asked there, and at the theatre, which box he was going to be in.”

  “Dear me, that was remarkably unfortunate.”

  “Yes, well, now Chief Inspector Blount’s got to hear about it and thinks he’s got me bang to rights for the murder. I wasn’t even there.”

  “So, tell them where you were. Give them your alibi.”

  Danny blew out a long breath and ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t. I haven’t got one.”

  “Nonsense! You must have been somewhere.”

  Danvers admitted that he’d left the office in Fleet Street in a towering rage, sometime around nine o’clock that evening, intending to beard Bristol in his box at the Viceroy. Not having a car, he decided to walk and, at some point on his journey, began to cool down and think things through. He wandered, taking no heed of his surroundings, though aware he was approaching Covent Garden for in the distance he could hear the sound of what he assumed were traders arriving and departing, calling out to each other.

  “Did you speak to anyone, or call in anywhere? A tobacconist or a public house, perhaps?”

  “No, I just wandered, lost in my own thoughts. It’s a wonder I didn’t end up in the river, for I had no idea in which direction I headed.”

  “So, you never got to the Viceroy at all, then?”

  A sheepish look settled on the handsome features. “I did as it happens, but by that time Sir David was long dead. I saw the policemen at the door, speaking to members of the audience as they came away. I nipped in and had a word with an usher, asking what was going off. When he told me, jeepers! I got out of there fast. I was so stunned, I didn’t even think to get the story.” He sighed. “Humph. Perhaps I’m not cut out to be Chief Crime Reporter after all. I hardly covered myself in glory.”

  He sat staring disconsolately into his whisky. Eleanor took pity on him.

  “Well, you would merely have been first with the news that Bristol was dead, murdered, but you wouldn’t have had much more of a story than that.”

  “So, what happened? The police have given very little away. How come you were there?”

  “I went to see the play!”

  “With Sir David?”

  Exasperated, Eleanor shook her head. “No! I did not know the man. I just happened to be in the box next door and sitting right beside the party wall. Just before the end of the second act I thought I heard a bang or a heavy thump from next door and went to investigate.”

  “Hang on.” Danvers' pen flew over the top sheet of his reporter’s notebook, making a note of all Eleanor had said. He paused and gazed across at her. “You actually heard the shot, my lady?”

  “Well, I heard something that sounded like one, yes, though my worry was that someone might have been taken ill and either collapsed or fallen.”

  “And you went to have a look. You’re very brave.”

  “I think the word you are looking for is foolhardy.”

  Danvers laughed. “You said it. So, then what happened? You must have been awfully shocked.”

  “What happened? I told the manager to call the police. Look, Mr Danvers, I am not going to say how I felt or tell you my react
ions. That has nothing to do with you — and if the Daily Banner makes up a cock-and-bull story that purports to be my words then I shall sue. I will also make sure that you, as well as your paper, are named in the action that I bring. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Humph.” His mouth twisted in disgust.

  Eleanor didn’t care. “In fact, if my name appears anywhere in your wretched report, I shall probably sue. However, should you care to write that an occupant of the next box found Sir David shot in the back of the head, and hurried to tell the manager and call the police, then I think all parties, you, your editor, your readers, and myself will be satisfied.”

  Danvers was frantically scribbling while she made her little speech. He looked up and said, “Thank you, my lady. All right, we have a deal. I won’t print your name or mention you in any way. Now, is there anything else, any other details, you can give me?”

  “Not really. I heard the noise about ten minutes to nine, or thereabouts, just before the end of the second act. I think, but only think, so don’t go printing this as fact, that Bristol’s killer must have opened the door, shot him from the doorway, closed it and walked away. There was no one around in the corridor when I left my box.”

  “Ah, but would you have seen them? The corridor is curved, and they could have been just out of your line of sight. And the Viceroy has decent carpets, so you wouldn’t have heard them walking away, either.”

  He was right. Eleanor shivered as she realised how close she had come to seeing the killer.

  Chapter 9

  Sitting in the back of the taxi taking her to Clarice Montescue’s twenty-fifth birthday party, Eleanor thought back over her interview with Danny Danvers, and kicked herself for not probing his knowledge of the Daily Banner’s proprietor. If, as Major Armitage had suggested, Sir David Bristol had some questionable contacts, then the staff at the newspaper would be likely to know about it.