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

by Lynda Wilcox

  “An’ what if he don’t come back?”

  Eleanor’s stomach churned and she clenched her jaw. “He will. I’ll find him.” She took a ten-shilling note from her bag and pushed it into the woman’s hand. “I’ll be back in a day or two. Take care of yourself.”

  She drove home with her mind in turmoil and with a hot flush of anger burning deep inside her. All well and good to tell his mother that she would find Joe, but how was she to do that when she had no idea where he might be?

  Resisting the temptation to accost the lurker outside her building and ask him what had happened to the paperboy, she entered Bellevue Mansions as she had left it — by the rear door.

  “How can we call ourselves a civilised country, Tilly, when people are living in such dire conditions? Going into Cook Place was like stepping back into the Middle Ages.”

  “I don’t know, my lady, and you can’t right every wrong. You did what you could for her. Most people wouldn’t have bothered.”

  Eleanor shook her head. “Surely, I only did what any caring person would do for a fellow human being?”

  Tilly sniffed. “Well, if it’s Christian charity you’re after giving, then you should join the Church.”

  “Do you think I did wrong?” Eleanor reached for a cigarette. “I’m worried about Joe.”

  “It’s not my place to say, but if you want my opinion, then you did do the right thing. And you’ve no call to blame yourself over that young man.”

  Tilly’s attempt to console her mistress left Eleanor in deeper gloom. She sat with her thoughts for over an hour, wondering what to do for the best, and was none too pleased at the arrival of a visitor.

  “Major Armitage is here to see you, my lady. Shall I tell him you’re out?”

  Eleanor groaned. “No, you’d better show him in, please, Tilly, and perhaps you’d better make us a pot of coffee.”

  Armitage looked tired when he entered, the fine lines at eye and mouth more deeply etched. Eleanor was in no mood to offer him tender care, however.

  “There’s a man out there watching the front of this building. Is he one of yours?”

  The major, blinking at her abruptness, shook his head and crossed to the window. “No. Despite what you may think of me, my lady, I’m not having you watched.” He stood behind the curtain, staring at the stretch of pavement opposite, then craning his neck to see below. “How long has be been there?”

  “I don’t know. I noticed him for the first time last night.”

  “After your evening out with Danny Danvers, you mean?”

  Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, though I hardly think that has anything to do with it, nor are my escorts any concern of yours.” She waved him to a seat. “Do you know that man?”

  “I can’t say that I do. Perhaps he’s one of your many admirers.”

  He smiled and the tiredness dropped from his face. If her mood had been brighter she might have encouraged the teasing and the banter. As it was she ignored it.

  “So, what can I do for you, Major?”

  “I was wondering if you had made any progress with Bristol’s murder?”

  “Ha! Chance would be a fine thing.”

  “Is it as bad as all that?” He spoke softly, and a gentle smile curved his lips.

  Eleanor felt her own lips begin to tremble and was saved from bursting into tears by the arrival of her maid with the coffee tray.

  “It feels like it, especially today.” She turned to Tilly. “Will you pour, please.”

  She stood and reached down the cigarette box from the mantelpiece and offered it to her visitor. He took one, and lit hers before his own.

  Eleanor resumed her seat with a brief word of thanks. “Everything is so jumbled up that if you’re expecting coherent thinking, then you’ve come to the wrong place and the wrong person.”

  He smiled. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? Tell me what you suspect. Perhaps if we put our heads together we can make sense of it.”

  She wrinkled her nose, loath to commit herself whilst still unsure. Would he think her a fool? At least he wouldn’t laugh at her if he did.

  “All right. Barbara Lancashire retained my services to retrieve a stolen pearl necklace with a distinctive clasp. There have been a spate of jewel robberies in London recently. She is also an inveterate gambler and I suspect that heavy losses on the gaming table have left her in debt.”

  “Hmm. Not what you want in the wife of a man with as much responsibility as Sir Robert. Go on.”

  Eleanor picked up her coffee cup and took a sip. “Well, it is my belief that Bristol was blackmailing her over these debts, possibly threatening to make them public, though I don’t know if that was the reason for his death. Nor do I think he was blackmailing her for money.”

  “Ah.” Armitage finished his cigarette, threw the butt in the fire, and leaned towards her, hands clasped between his knees.

  “The day after Bristol’s death,” Eleanor went on, “Barbara asked me to call on her and told me she no longer required my services. She gave me some cock-and-bull story about having forgotten that she’d sent the necklace to be cleaned.”

  “And you think that he wanted the necklace?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “No, I think he wanted information, and the way she passed that information to him was by wearing the necklace.”

  There! She’d said it. Now let him think her a fool.

  Armitage scratched at his furrowed brow. “I’m sorry, Eleanor, I don’t quite see...”

  “Look, a string of pearls is usually long enough to go over the head, or it has a clasp that fastens on the back of the neck. Barbara’s however were unique in having a clasp that was designed to be worn on either shoulder. If you are right about Bristol being the leader of a spy ring, and needing to know which of two days Monsieur Doumergue would be at Chequers, then this was a way to tell him.”

  “I see. So, right shoulder Wednesday, left shoulder Thursday, that sort of thing?”

  “Yes, exactly that. So, with the theft of her pearls, Barbara sat in her box at the Viceroy with her left hand on her right shoulder.”

  “This was the night that Bristol was murdered?”

  “Yes, I spotted her and thought at first that she was rubbing her shoulder, as if it were sore. Lady Ann Carstairs noticed it, too. We went back to the Viceroy yesterday, and...er...compared notes.”

  The major’s lips twitched into the familiar quirky smile. “Glad to see you’re as thorough as always.”

  Eleanor shrank back. “I’m not playing at this. Don’t forget that Deanna Dacre is employing me to solve Bristol’s murder. I intend to do just that.”

  “Don’t be so jumpy, my lady. I meant it as a compliment.”

  She shrugged and drank more coffee before replacing cup and saucer on the table at her side. “I take it you know when Mr Doumergue will meet with Mr MacDonald? Because, you see, we still don’t know which day Barbara was indicating.”

  “Oh, quite, quite. Nor do we know who else is in this group of spies, though we are keeping a close eye on the two names you gave me earlier. Have you heard anything else? I don’t have to remind you that time is ticking away.”

  “No, Major, you don’t.” She helped herself to another cigarette and debated whether to tell him about Joe. The boy’s disappearance bothered her. It had to have something to do with this spy business. If he’d simply taken her money and run, then he would not have been missing from work or from home — and he would not have got far on a single shilling.

  She smiled to herself at the memory of his face as he looked at the shiny coin, and of how he’d refused it in favour of one of Tilly’s breakfasts. Tears welled in her eyes and she brushed them away with an angry hand. If any harm had come to that boy, she might commit murder herself.

  “My lady? Eleanor?”

  Armitage’s quiet voice broke into her thoughts. Clamping down on emotions that threatened to overwhelm her, she cursed her weakness, and drew on her cigarette. “Well, g
oing back to what I said earlier, I wonder if it is possible that the jewel thefts are the work of your spies, and the money raised is being used to fund their activities.”

  He seemed surprised by the suggestion, but gave it due consideration.

  “Perhaps, but the likes of Bristol had deep pockets, anyway. Why go to the trouble of stealing jewellery?”

  “Because, Major, one gets deep pockets by spending other people’s money and not one’s own. Of course, the thief could be one of the gang and still be lining his own pockets, the thefts having nothing to do with his espionage activity. Do you suppose spy rings have accountants?”

  He laughed. “Doubt it. How they get their money is a minor issue, however. We still don’t know when they plan to assassinate Monsieur Doumergue, or where their hideout is?”

  “David Bristol’s office in Bromwich Street would be a good place to start, wouldn’t it?”

  Eleanor gave her visitor a long hard stare. How much more did he expect her to do? She had passed on all her suspicions, all the information that might be relevant, everything she had gleaned about Bristol’s death, and the antics of the wife of a government minister.

  In the process she had found herself watched and possibly put the life of a small boy at risk. Enough was enough.

  She was about to say so when he forestalled her.

  “We’ve had someone in Bromwich Street for a while. It’s the main reason that we knew what Bristol was up to. I know I said before that his death had done us a favour, but on reflection, it hasn’t. We’re now in the dark. We don’t know who has taken his place as the leader of the group or what their plans are.”

  “But you do,” Eleanor protested. “Barbara Lancashire knows which day the Frenchman will be at Chequers, as does her husband. Go and speak to her, interrogate her, or whatever it is you do, and get her to tell you what information she — oh!”

  Only now did it sink in that whatever Barbara had attempted to pass on to Bristol had never reached the spy ring. His murder had broken the chain.

  And now she knew who had killed him.

  Chapter 23

  Major Armitage eventually took his leave and Tilly served a late lunch. Eleanor insisted her maid stayed with her, and while she ate, outlined her plans for the Minshull family. Tilly clucked and sniffed, but agreed that the plan was a good one.

  She made a note of the Minshulls’ address and agreed to go and see them.

  “When do you want me to go to Bakewell House, my lady? I could do that after I’ve been to Cook Place.”

  “No, that’s all right. We’ll go together and do it tomorrow. I’m off to the Houses of Parliament this afternoon, I’m inviting myself to a party this evening and I’m going to impose myself on Penelope Studley-Gore. I’ll wear the black dress, I think, and the diamond and feather headdress.”

  With these details sorted, she drove to the seat of British government in Westminster and wandered into the magnificent St Stephen’s Hall, the main entrance to the Houses of Parliament.

  Her father was a member here, with a seat in the House of Lords, though he preferred to stay on his estate and only turned up at the House on rare occasions. The duke maintained that his attendance was largely a waste of time. He always said that he got more sense out of his Russian wife and his sheep than out of any politician.

  Eleanor smiled at the thought and was looking up at the hall’s stupendous wooden roof, admiring the curve of its great oaken beams, when she heard her name being called.

  “Lady Eleanor! Hello!”

  “Oh, hello Mr Danvers.”

  “Fancy meeting you here, and twice in one day, not that it isn't always a pleasure to see you, my lady.” He winked at her, his eyes alive with mischief. “Have you come for the speech?”

  “Speech? What speech?”

  “Didn’t you know? Gerald Hope-Weedon is supposed to be making a speech this afternoon. The gossip is, he’s supposed to be attacking his own leader over his refusal to appoint a Foreign Secretary. Some say he’s after the job for himself.”

  Eleanor took a step back and gazed up at him. He seemed like a child, buzzing with excitement.

  “But what does that have to do with you?” she asked. “I thought you were a crime reporter.”

  “Ha! According to my editor, if there is crime in London it’s to be found right here, so I might as well be put to dashed use by covering this speech and killing two birds with one stone. Frankly, I think it’s a crime that I’ve not made Chief Reporter yet, but my brilliance obviously escapes them.”

  “Poor you,” she sympathised, and laughed.

  “Ah, but I wouldn’t be so poor if you’d accompany me to the press gallery, my lady.” He doffed an imaginary hat and bowed low.

  Eleanor was still laughing. “You do know how to show a girl a good time, Mr Danvers. Yes, all right, why not?”

  He offered her his arm and she crooked a hand around his elbow as they walked through the long hall and up the stairs at the end. There were several more flights before they reached the press gallery and took their seats overlooking the chamber of the House of Commons.

  A member was already on his feet and addressing the House, though Eleanor paid him little attention as she scanned the faces below and noted Mr MacDonald, and Gerald Hope-Weedon on the government side and Stanley Baldwin on the other.

  Danvers took out his reporter’s notebook and a pencil and began scribbling while Eleanor looked about her. News of Hope-Weedon’s supposed speech had clearly spread, for both the press gallery, and the public gallery behind it, were full.

  The proceedings soon bored Eleanor who had little time for politics and still less for politicians. The constant drawl of, “hear, hear, hear”, was like the bleating of her father’s sheep and grated on her nerves. She rubbed at her temples, feeling a headache starting to build behind her eyes.

  When Hope-Weedon stood up to speak, he made no reference to foreign affairs, but instead made much of the plight of the poor. His cogent arguments and impassioned rhetoric made him a good speaker and despite her dislike of the man, Eleanor owned to being impressed.

  “Was this what you were expecting?” she whispered to her companion.

  He leaned his shoulder against hers, his mouth close to her ear. “Hardly. This isn’t what brought the news hounds here. They were expecting something very different.”

  “Then I wonder why he changed his mind?”

  Danvers continued to lean against her, his hot breath tickling her neck. “Who knows? There may be fireworks yet.”

  Unfortunately, there weren’t, and after fifteen minutes Hope-Weedon sat down again.

  Eleanor mulled over what he had said, her mind still full of Joe and his whereabouts.

  All well and good for the high-and-mighty to pontificate about poverty as Hope-Weedon had just done, but what was he, or any member of parliament, doing about the likes of Cook Place? The whole street ought to be levelled and better houses built to replace them, with indoor sanitation, and electric lighting. No doubt some grasping landlord was still charging Mrs Minshull an exorbitant rent.

  “Well, that was a surprise.” Danvers flipped his notebook shut and got to his feet. “Care to join me for a spot of tea? There’s a nice little tea house the other side of Parliament Street.”

  “Is there any chance of getting to speak to Mr Hope-Weedon, do you think?”

  He shook his head. “Shouldn’t think so. He’ll be in the Chamber for a while longer, yet.”

  “In that case, yes I would like some tea.”

  With the absence of the expected sensation, the press gallery was thinning out, leaving only the true political correspondents behind. Eleanor and Danvers threaded their way between the seats and back down the stairs.

  “Sorry that Weedon's speech turned into a disappointment,” said Danvers, when they reached the outside. “Still, it means I get to treat you to tea, so it’s not all bad news. By the way, did you find what you were looking for this morning? A missing youngster
, wasn't it?”

  “No, I didn’t. I found the hovel where he lives, and I found his sick mother, but no sign of Joe. I have to admit to feeling worried for him.”

  “Oh, he’ll turn up. Kids always do.”

  Eleanor was not so sanguine. She could not dismiss the subject as easily as the reporter, but she said nothing as he ushered her inside the Albemarle Tea Room. Warm, snug, and gaily decorated, it had several free tables and a smiling waitress bustled up as soon as they had taken their seats.

  “So, how is your investigation into Bristol’s death going?” Danvers asked when they were alone. “You haven’t forgotten that you’ve promised me the story, have you?”

  “Not at all. I’m pretty certain that I know the culprit.”

  “You do?” He leaned across the table, at the same time struggling with his notebook which he was attempting to withdraw from an inside pocket of his coat.

  Eleanor held up a hand. “Not so fast. I said before that the police will be the first to know, not you. You’ll have to wait your turn. Besides, I don’t quite have all the facts, yet.” She took a cigarette case and lighter from her bag and, in an apparent change of subject, said, “So, what did you make of Hope-Weedon? Do you know much about him?”

  A quick shake of his dark head. “Can’t say that I do. To be honest, politicians bring me out in hives and I usually avoid them like the plague. If it wasn’t for my editor insisting I go along, you wouldn’t get me within a mile of that place.”

  She laughed. “You’d have to do some interesting detours then, given where you work. You’re within a mile of it nearly all day, every day.”

  Danvers gave a lop-sided grin. “Yeah, well. You get my gist.”

  The waitress arrived with a tray of tea and buttered crumpets which she placed in front of Eleanor.

  “Ha!” said Danvers. “You’re obviously expected to be mother.”

  “Heaven forfend.”

  “You don’t want children?”

  “Not for the foreseeable future, no.”

  His determination to put their relationship on a more personal footing was beginning to irk her. While his good looks and obvious charm were appealing, and she would normally have enjoyed the banter, she did not have the luxury of time for fooling around. Maybe Peter Armitage's sense of urgency had rubbed off on her.