Lord Foxbridge Butts In

by Manners, Robert

  I don’t know why I felt so responsible in this matter, but I stationed myself in the foyer and asked my fellow guests to stay in when they tried to go out, explaining that there had been an accident and the police wanted to talk to us. Not that there was any great traffic, it was a small hotel after all, and there were only twelve of us in residence at the moment. Some of the men I spoke to got rather shirty at the mention of police, but I was able to soothe them with platitudes about the accident having nothing to do with us and that questions would not be very invasive, and sent them off to the lounge for a drink on my bill.

  But when the police arrived, my curiosity got the better of me, and I followed them up to the Count’s room to watch them at work, insinuating myself into a corner in hopes that they wouldn’t notice me and throw me out. It was fascinating to watch, as they took photographs and dusted everything with black powder that would probably send the houseboys into fits; I had a queasy moment when they unhooked the rope and slowly lowered the unfortunate creature from the chandelier; the way the body moved, floppy and stiff at the same time, was too gruesome for words. There really is no dignity in death.

  The way the bluebottles went through the Count’s things was rather sloppy, too, and I was nearly moved to object when they yanked the sheets off the bed and held them up to the light, lifted the mattress itself to look underneath, and then dumped them all in a bundle with the carelessness of a band of Visigoths.

  “What is going on here?!” Count Gryzynsky was a picture of shock and anger, standing in the doorway to his vandalized room. He looked rather natty, otherwise, slim and cool in an obviously new white suit and straw hat that looked extremely well on him. At least some of my hundred pounds had been put to good use.

  “Mr. Gryzynsky?” Chief Inspector Brigham, a tall middle-aged man with a weathered face and distinctly military demeanor, detached himself from Twister’s side and approached the outraged dancer.

  “I am Count Gryzynsky. What are you filthy peasants doing to my room?”

  “I’m afraid there’s been something in the nature of a tragedy,” the Chief Inspector came up and put an amiable arm around the Count’s shoulders, gently guiding him into the room, “Perhaps you can help us shed some light on the problem.”

  “I? Help you? I do not understand,” he tried and failed to shrug Brigham’s arm off his shoulders.

  “Perhaps you can tell us who this fellow is,” the Chief Inspector gestured at one of his minions to pull back the sheet covering the corpse’s face, “Nobody seems to know him.”

  “I do not know him,” the Count lied even more transparently than I did, his eyes darting all over the room as he denied the knowledge; and, unfortunately, in their frantic darting, his eyes fell on me in my quiet corner, “Sebastian! What are you doing here?”

  “I’m sorry, Andrzej,” I came forward, acting as if I was supposed to be there, “I found the body. I thought it was you, at first.”

  “This is terrible!” he pulled away from the Chief Inspector and came to stand next to me, “Look at what they have done to my room!”

  “Would you mind telling us where you’ve been today, Count?” the Chief Inspector asked as Twister pulled out his pad and pencil.

  “I do mind,” the Count said hotly, “My business is my own.”

  “I’m afraid that,” the Chief Inspector indicated the sheeted body, “makes your business our business.”

  “Very well,” the Count lifted his head to look down his elegant nose at the policemen, “I went to Brighton yesterday, and returned just now. If you wish to see my train ticket, I may still have it somewhere.”

  “That would be very helpful, thank you,” the Chief Inspector held out his hand and the Count started patting his pockets in a rather stagey manner.

  “I must have thrown it away,” he admitted after dragging out the pocket-patting pretense as long as he could, “I am not in the habit of making keepsakes of train tickets.”

  “Perhaps you’d care to tell us what you were doing in Brighton?” the Chief Inspector went on.

  “I would not care to tell you anything,” the Count raised his eyebrow with an admirable hauteur, “But as you insist on prying into my affairs, I was meeting with a theatrical agent who had suggested that I might find an appropriate engagement in that city.”

  “And did you?”

  “No, I did not. I did not like the look of the place, it was very, how do you say, tatty. And so I came back.”

  “You won’t mind giving us the name of this theatrical agent, I presume? And the name of the hotel where you slept last night? I assume you stayed in a hotel.”

  “The agent’s name was Horrocks, or Horace or something like that,” the Count looked thoughtful and started patting his pockets again, “I do have his card here somewhere. Ah, here it is. James Horrocks. Quite genuine, you see. And I did not sleep in a hotel, I... I neglected to bring any notes or my cheque-book, and so had to wait in the station until the return train would come. I am quite tired.”

  “I am sorry, sir, but we’re just about finished here. Would you mind taking another look at the body? Perhaps you were too surprised to recognize him properly.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?!” the Count bellowed.

  “No, sir,” the Chief Inspector was not impressed, “It’s just that people who are not accustomed to looking on death are sometimes so shocked that they do not notice all the details.”

  “Very well,” the Count stepped over to the body and looked at it again, making a show of staring for as long as he could, “He does seem somewhat familiar, but it is difficult to know with the face so black. I cannot place him, but I will not say that I do not know him. I may, I may not.”

  “Thank you, sir, you’ve been very helpful,” the Chief Inspector led the Count back out of the room, and threw a gimlet eye in my direction to make sure I left with him, “We’ll let you know when we’ve finished with your rooms. We’ll do our best to put everything back to rights before we go. Good afternoon.”

  “Come along, Andrzej, come to my room and have a drink while you wait for them to finish here,” I put my arm around his shoulders, which were beginning to shake just the tiniest bit. He came along meekly, though, the shaking become increasingly pronounced as we walked on, him muttering incomprehensibly in Polish the entire time. When we got to my rooms, he took a look across the courtyard, turned rather green, and ran for the bathroom.

  I went over to the window to draw the curtains on the distressing scene, and due to some trick of acoustics in the courtyard, I heard Chief Inspector Brigham and Twister talking as clearly as if they were in the room with me. It was quite startling.

  “What did that gormless kid call you for, anyway, Paget?” the Chief Inspector complained. And to show how gormless I really was, I didn’t realize at first that he was talking about me.

  “You know how those people are, sir,” Twister tried to soothe the man, “they naturally go to someone they already know, old school ties and all that nonsense. I just met him last week, he’s a friend of a man I knew at school.”

  Those people, he says! As if he didn’t have a title and estate of his own, as if he wasn’t wearing his Harrow tie that very minute. I was beginning to think that Twister was one of those awful types the Freudians talk about, who think other people are better than they, and try to act like those people in order to feel better about themselves. Inferiority complex, I think it’s called.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to talk to his little lordship and that arrogant Pole. I know you don’t like to trade on your background, and I admire you for it, but you do have the light touch with these toffee-nosed nobs.”

  “Yes sir. I’ll talk to the other guests first, though, if you don’t mind. We’ve a good likeness sketch of the victim, we can ask them if they recognize him before they start scattering for dinner.”

  “Certainly, Paget, good idea. Carry on.”

  Well, as one can imagine, I was rather fuming over that exchange; but
that’s the worst thing about eavesdropping, you can’t confront the people you were eavesdropping on. Nanny always said that people who listen at doors deserve to hear the worst; but I’d never heard anything so damning said about me in my long career of snooping at keyholes and nosing into other people’s business. The worst I’d ever heard before that was a prefect at Eton calling me ‘that ginger tart’ — which was nothing more than the proud truth. But a toffee-nosed nob? I wasn’t even sure what that meant.

  When the Count emerged from the bathroom, he was pale and shivering, dabbing at splashes on his shirt with a towel. His step was unsteady, so I came forward to help him out into the sitting-room, establishing him on the sofa and pouring him a stiff brandy.

  “Thank you,” he gasped after swallowing the snifter in one go, “I am afraid I was sick in your bathroom. I made a mess.”

  “That’s all right,” I assured him, pouring him another snifter, “Who was the man in your room? I could tell you recognized him.”

  “Man?” he snorted, “He was little more than a boy. His name was Pavel Strokhoyev, he was primo uomo at the Belgravia Ballet. A position for which I myself auditioned three weeks ago.”

  “But he was hired over you? So, a rival? Why would he kill himself in your room? Was he in love with you?”

  “He barely knew me,” the Count sobbed out, “We only met at the auditions. He seemed very nice, but we did not meet socially. I held him no grudge, he was no rival to me. He was the better dancer, and very young, that is all. He was just beginning a brilliant career. That poor, lovely boy. All that talent cut short.”

  “That’s terrible,” I put my arm around his shoulders and pulled him close as he wept.

  While I was comforting the Count, Pond came in with a stack of parcels wrapped in blue paper and white ribbon, making for the bedroom.

  “There’s a bit of a mess in the bathroom, Pond,” I whispered over the Count’s head as he passed, “Can you get one of the houseboys to come clean it up?”

  “I will see to it myself, my lord,” he replied, “The staff are being questioned by the police.”

  The Count wailed a bit and cried harder at the mention of police. Pond gave him a rather unkind look, I don’t know if it was because of the sick or because of the weeping, and went out to the service hall to get a mop and an apron.

  “I just can’t understand why he was in my room,” the Count began to compose himself, sitting up and searching in his pockets for a handkerchief; I handed him mine, and he mopped his face and blew his nose loudly.

  “Who else auditioned for that position?” a tiny glimmer of an idea formed in my mind, the plot from a mystery novel I’d read some time or other, where a chap killed one rival to a benefice of some sort — a job or fellowship or inheritance, I couldn’t recall — in such a way as to implicate another rival, putting both rivals out of the way in one sweep. But why make the murder look like suicide? And the whole thing would fall apart if the second rival had a cast-iron alibi placing him sixty miles away in Brighton — unless... “Were you really in Brighton last night, Andrzej?”

  “No, that was a lie,” he admitted to me, “But I could not tell a policeman the truth. I was in a horrible railway hotel at Charing Cross with Jimmy Horrocks. He promised me an engagement if I spent the night with him. He will back up my story, it won’t do him any good to give me away. Oh, perhaps I should phone him to warn him. He won’t know I told them we were in Brighton.”

  “Use my telephone, it’s right over there,” I suggested, and got up to go into the next room; it’s always awkward to listen to one side of a conversation, so I looked in on Pond to see how he was getting on.

  “Silk handkerchiefs, my lord?” he turned on me accusingly; he’d opened the topmost parcel, which had come from the one of the many haberdashers I’d visited the previous day.

  “Aren’t they pretty?” I reached into the box and picked one up, pure white silk with rolled edges and a decorative initial S embroidered on the corner.

  “A gentleman does not use white silk handkerchiefs, my lord,” he reproved sternly, “Irish linen is the appropriate material, even French linen might be acceptable, if somewhat effete. But silk simply isn’t done.”

  “But they feel so nice next the skin,” I objected, reaching out to caress his cheek with the handkerchief, making him flinch.

  “Silk is much too difficult to launder, my lord,” he went on, “They’ll be ruined the first time they’re washed.”

  “What do you mean?!” the Count screamed like an enraged bull in the next room.

  “Don’t look in the next box, Pond,” I cautioned him — if the white silk handkerchiefs had upset him, the pink and lavender silk shirts might give him an apoplexy — and rushed into the sitting room to see what was wrong.

  “How can you say you do not know me?” he demanded, “I spent last night with you, you filthy pig! You dare deny it! No, I will not lower my voice!” he swore long and lustily in Polish at the person on the other end before slamming the receiver into the cradle with such energy that it bounced back up again and rolled onto the floor, “That... that... niechluj denies even knowing me! He will tell the police that I lied, he never heard of me, and he does not know how I got his card! I cannot believe it!”

  “Oh, Andrzej, I’m so sorry,” I put my hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off angrily and poured himself another brandy, then set to striding about the room, gesticulating and shouting in his native tongue.

  Without Horrocks’s alibi, the Count was in very hot water. I didn’t think for a minute that he’d killed that boy, but having lied to the police would look very bad in their eyes, and before you could say ‘Jack Robinson’ he’d be down at the Yard answering very uncomfortable questions with gyves upon his wrists. Being a foreigner and a queer would certainly work against him, and if no better explanation was put forward, he’d most likely go to trial — at best he’d be deported; at worst, hanged.

  “Pond,” I went back into the bedroom to give the Count more room to pace in, “I need your help.”

  “I wish to apologize for speaking so disrespectfully, my lord. It was unforgivable, but I must apologize nonetheless,” he looked absolutely devastated, his head hanging between his shoulders and his hands loose at his sides.

  “Nonsense, you did no such thing,” I dismissed his apology with an impatient wave of my hand, “I need you to...”

  “But, my lord,” he interrupted, looking at me in surprise, “You aren’t angry?”

  “Of course not, stupid,” I punched his arm lightly to show we were still chums, “But I need you to do something for me.”

  “Anything, my lord.”

  “I need you to go talk to the porters and waiters and all those fellows belowstairs, and find out if the Count was seen in the hotel at any time last night; also, find out if there were any visitors let in to see anyone last night, anyone at all.”

  “But, my lord, isn’t that the province of the police?” he looked scandalized again, but was still so raw from shame that it couldn’t take over his whole countenance.

  “Of course, but they’ll tell you things that they won’t tell the police.”

  “The staff here are scrupulously honest, my lord; they would never lie to the police.”

  “Oh, I know they won’t lie, but they’ll omit. Think about it, Pond: if a bluebottle shoved his way into your pantry and started asking nosy questions in that accusatory way they have, how forthcoming would you be? Sure, you’d answer the man’s questions truthfully, but you wouldn’t volunteer anything.”

  “I take your lordship’s point,” he considered the scenario, “But how am I to go about it? Won’t it excite suspicion if I question the staff immediately after the police?”

  “You don’t have to question them, just go and encourage them to have a good gossip with you. Take a bottle of something off my tray and stand them to drinks. Tell them you’re all shaken up about the coppers crawling all over the place and offer to share a sooth
ing cup in the staff-room.”

  “I couldn’t possibly drink your lordship’s liquor,” he protested, though only weakly; I was wearing him down.

  “Well, go around to the nearest pub and get something inexpensive, if you think the quality lends a certain something to the mateyness of the boys. Take it out of household expenses. Now shove off, and report back to me as soon as you gather a sufficiency of information, or it’s time to dress me for dinner, whichever comes first.”

  “Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord,” he bowed and scuttled off.

  I stood there for a few moments thinking I should have bought some of those avant-garde ties and launched them at him the day before, if offending his sensibilities would knock some of the stuffing out of him. I rather missed my old pal Reggie, and anything that could bring him to Pond’s surface (if you’ll pardon the pun) was to be encouraged.

  “Andrzej, stand still,” I grabbed the Count by the shoulders and shook him a little, “I know you won’t like this, but you must tell Sergeant Paget the absolute truth about where you were last night, and with whom, when he comes to talk to us.”

  “But they will think I am lying after they talk to that pig, Horrocks,” he objected.

  “It will be your word against his,” I explained, nudging him over to the sofa to sit down, “And with the nature of your relationship, I think they’ll be more likely to believe you than him. A man who slept with another man in a Charing Cross rattrap would of course lie about it, but a man who did it and told the truth would be believed immediately because nobody in his right mind would admit to such a thing if it wasn’t true.”

  “You are much cleverer than you look, Sebastian,” he said thoughtfully, after digesting all those words, “But even so, it is too dangerous to admit to sodomy in this country.”

  “You can trust Sergeant Paget, he’s a friend of mine,” I almost said he was a friend of ours, but did not think Twister would want the Count to know that, “He knows what I am, and has not held it against me.”

  “Very well, if you trust him, I will trust him,” the Count conceded with a childish pout that I would have found endearing in other circumstances.