Lord Foxbridge Butts In

by Manners, Robert

  “Well, he needn’t know,” I dismissed Twister’s stringent morality with a thoroughly aristocratic shrug, “I’m certainly not going to tell him. I’d look a frightful ass if I did; he’d rag me to the end of time, eavesdropping on an assassin and then asking the same assassin to translate himself for me.”

  “You’re a very unusual boy,” he said with a note of admiration.

  “I know,” I agreed, and then another thought popped out of my mouth before I could stop it, “Wait a minute: did you only go to bed with me so you could get that transcript?”

  “No,” he laughed at my vanity, “I only made you wait until after dinner so I could go through your rooms while you were asleep. I would otherwise have had you in the Oxford & Cambridge cloakroom.”

  “Well, then that’s fine,” I got up out of my chair and walked over to him, straddling his lap and leaning down to kiss him, “I was afraid you were going to leave, since you got what you came for.”

  “I haven’t got all I came for. Not even close.”

  *****

  “Foxy, you’re an ass,” Twister crowed triumphantly as he came breezing into my sitting-room at tea-time the next day, “Or rather your Professor Beran is an ass. His translation was completely and utterly wrong. It wasn’t even Czech, it was Bulgarian.”

  “Really? How embarrassing for him,” I hid my grin behind my teacup.

  “Well, I don’t suppose it matters,” he settled into the chair I was beginning to think of as his, and picked up his cup, “He’s not a professional, he’s a don, all theory and no practice. Your phonetic scribbles gave our lads a bit of a time, I don’t suppose we can blame Beran for mistaking the accent and getting the nouns mixed up.”

  “So, what did the transcript really say?” I wondered, hoping he’d show it to me.

  “It was extremely interesting,” he said with a smug grin that made me want to punch him and then kiss him, “Unfortunately it’s confidential, I can’t tell you. But it turns out the dead man is of great interest to us, we’ve been on his trail for quite some time; whoever killed him did the world a big favor and saved the Yard a lot of work.”

  “Well, that’s all to the good, isn’t it?” I asked brightly.

  “I suppose. I’d like to have a lead on the killer, but that trail is stone cold,” Twister paused to chomp into a cucumber sandwich, “The latchkey question hasn’t been resolved, except that I’ve narrowed it down to the estate agents, nobody else could have had a key or made a copy of it. But there are so many of them, it’s impossible to trace.”

  “They should be more careful,” I pronounced sententiously; in fact, I happened to know that Miles worked at that agency for three weeks last long vac, and had copies of keys to a dozen offices all over the city; I also knew that if Twister was to make the rounds of all the vacant offices on the agency’s books, he’d find another murder or two that hadn’t happened within earshot of a nosy viscount who had nothing better to do with his time than crouch at the back of a cupboard and eavesdrop. Once Miles was convinced his secret was safe with me, he spent much of the night regaling me with stories of his profession.

  “I’ve suggested as much,” Twister agreed, “And Miss Murchison is going to start keeping photographs of all their agents on file, so if this sort of thing happens again, she’ll have a record to show us that we can compare to our own mug books.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I thought, “Though rather a bit after the horse has bolted, what?”

  “Innovation is always preceded by error,” Twister laughed.

  “I’m going out with Professor Beran tonight,” I changed the subject abruptly, purely too see how he reacted.

  “Really?” he said with a breezy indifference, “Where are you going?”

  “Well, nowhere particular: ‘going out’ is a euphemism.”

  “You’re quite the Lothario, aren’t you?” he grinned at me affectionately.

  “I can’t wait to tell him about his translation,” I arched my eyebrow at him, not entirely pleased with the lack of jealousy.

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t mention it,” Twister said thoughtfully, “It would be kinder not to, don’t you think? Just tell him we weren’t able to make any use of it but we’re grateful for his efforts.”

  “You’re a very nice man, aren’t you?” I studied him, liking him all the more, even if he wasn’t going to be jealous.

  “Most people think so,” he shrugged.

  “Am I nice?” I wondered — having been so interested in his physical attraction to me, and inflaming his possessiveness, I hadn’t thought about whether or not he would consider me worthy. Nobody had ever really expressed an interest in that part of me.

  “I suppose so,” he studied me in return, “I hadn’t thought about it. You’re so confoundedly nosy and impatient, and so maddeningly indiscreet; but yes, you’re a nice enough chap.”

  “I think I can do better than ‘nice enough,’“ I frowned; I know I’m nosy, impatient, and indiscreet, but it was oddly painful to hear him say so, “Perhaps I should try harder.”

  “Every man should strive to be a better man,” Twister reached over and took my hand, giving it a friendly squeeze.

  “Let’s not be so serious,” I squeezed his hand back and shook myself out of the sudden sadness I’d fallen into, “Let’s go do something fun. Do you have any crime scenes I can help you investigate?”

  “No, I don’t. You could help me write out my paperwork.”

  “I hardly think so,” I laughed, “Let’s just go to the Green Park and see if I can find you another corpse, instead.”

  “You’re impossible,” he shook his head; but he did join me in the Green Park, and we had a really nice time.

  *****

  The Affair of the Diplomat’s Darling

  “May I join you, Lord Foxbridge?” Baron van der Swertz suddenly bobbed up across the table from me, destroying the delicious solitude I was enjoying.

  It was the first time in a fortnight I’d been able to dine alone. All those girls I’d danced with at the Paxtons’ ball had translated into dinner invitations within a few days; I met more girls and their parents at those dinners and the dances that often followed, which translated into yet more invitations; like they Hydra of myth, every invitation I accepted blossomed into three more invitations, and in short order I was quite run off my feet with social engagements.

  I’m certainly not the solitary type, always found curled up in my own rooms with an improving book; but eleven big dinner parties in a row, with a half-dozen dances, musical evenings, and theatre-outings thrown in for afters, are enough to wear even the most sociable chap down to a mere shadow of himself. So as soon as a hole opened in my schedule, on an uneventful Monday in July, I breathed a sigh of relief, browbeat Pond into letting me wear my beautiful new smoking jacket downstairs, and settled down in the dining room at Hyacinth House with a plate of fairly excellent venison and a bottle of really excellent claret.

  “Of course, Baron, please take a seat,” I smiled over my annoyance, ever the charming host, “Will you dine?”

  “No thank you, Lord Foxbridge, I have already dined.”

  “You must have a drop of this gorgeous claret, though. I insist. Emmanuel, another glass, please.”

  “You are too kind, Lord Foxbridge,” the Baron accepted the glass with a courtly bow and gulped at it like a dying camel coming across an oasis in the desert.

  “I don’t wish to be too personal, sir,” I observed as he shakily put the glass back down and resumed twisting the already-sharp end of his Imperial, “but you seem somewhat agitated.”

  “I am very agitated, Lord Foxbridge,” he breathed a pettish sigh, curling the beard around his finger.

  “Please, call me Sebastian,” I had a feeling it was going to take a while for him to unburden himself, and I couldn’t in good conscience go on eating if we weren’t on more familiar terms.

  “Thank you,” that seemed to surprise him, and he left off torturing his be
ard in order to have another go at the wine, taking a more delicate sip this time, “Please to call me Gustaaf.”

  “What’s on your mind, Gustaaf?” I inquired less formally as I sliced off another bit of venison and dragged it through the purée of spiced potatoes before popping it into my mouth.

  “On my...? Oh, I see, you wish to know what is troubling me. Well, I will tell you, Sebastian. Something terrible has happened. Some papers have been stolen from me.”

  “Papers?” that caught my interest. A foreign gent with an Imperial on his chin and an Order under his tie, having papers stolen from him, is the opening premise of many favorite detective stories, “Secret government orders, perhaps? Letters from one monarch to another making concessions that would be very embarrassing to one or both countries?”

  “No, nothing of that sort,” the Baron frowned thoughtfully, wondering if I was too frivolous to trust with this information, “Some papers to do with various trade agreements between my government and yours, nothing of political importance. But it would be very embarrassing to me, professionally, if they were lost.”

  “Ah,” I was disappointed in the unglamorous explanation, but then was lured down a different path of inquiry, “Why are you telling me this? Not to say I’m not honoured by the confidence.”

  “I have heard from my manservant that you were of material assistance in helping Count Gryzynsky avoid arrest over that poor boy murdered in his room,” he explained, “I had hoped you could help me, as well.”

  “That was something of an accident,” I quickly deprecated my role in solving the murder of a Russian ballet dancer in the room across the courtyard from mine, “And it was my man, Pond, who got all the information, and my friend Sergeant Paget who actually did all the work.”

  “Nevertheless,” the Baron pursued, “You have a reputation for discretion and cleverness.”

  “Servants’ gossip,” I dismissed the honour, purely out of chivalric habit. In fact I was rather thrilled I was developing a reputation in London.

  “My manservant does not gossip,” the Baron raised his eyebrow at me in irritation, and drew himself up to an offended posture, “If you do not wish to help me, you may simply say so.”

  “Oh, it’s not that,” I reached across the table and took his hand in a confidential gesture, “I am delighted to be of any service I can offer. I just don’t want you to labor under the misconception that I am some sort of Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot.”

  “I do not know those gentlemen,” the Baron said with a perfectly straight face that was terribly difficult to not laugh at.

  “Thank you, Emmanuel,” I said to the handsome young Latin waiter as he removed my plate and glass, “I’ll skip the cheese and fruit, I think; if you’ll bring us some brandy and coffee?”

  “Right away, my lord,” he replied in his soft Argentine accent, gliding off to the pantry with the grace of a swan on the Serpentine.

  “So,” I returned my attention to the Baron, “When were these papers stolen?”

  “I am not sure,” the Baron replied, “I last saw them on Friday afternoon when my secretary put them away in my dispatch case before we left Westminster Palace. I noticed them missing when I went back to the conference this morning, but they were not required during that meeting.”

  “And where is your dispatch case usually kept?”

  “In my desk, in my parlour.”

  “And who has access to your desk?” I felt like I was drawing the information out of him only reluctantly; which, considering that he brought this problem to me rather than me nosing in where I wasn’t wanted, struck me as very odd; perhaps he wasn’t expecting me to actually question him then and there.

  “Nobody but myself and my manservant,” he lied very subtly, but I could see in the way he went very still, not moving a muscle as he made this seemingly benign statement, that he was hiding something.

  “What about the hotel staff? Visitors, perhaps? Is the desk kept locked?”

  “The desk is sometimes locked, sometimes not. I do not think to keep the papers in a safe,” the Baron made an impatient gesture, “They are not secret state documents, they are merely old contracts and treaties to do with the fishing rights in the lower North Sea. Nobody could possibly want them, there is no reason to keep them under lock and key.”

  “Were all of the papers taken, or just the ones to do with the fishing rights?” I decided to wait before I investigated his lie, and returned to the center of the topic.

  “Some correspondence was also taken, but not all of it. And some of the treaties were still there.”

  “So whoever took them just grabbed a handful of papers, rather than some specific thing,” I suggested.

  “I suppose so, I do not know.”

  “And was anything else taken? From the desk, I mean?”

  “No, there was not,” he lied again. Why was he lying to me about the thing that he himself asked me to investigate? Very rum.

  “Well, nothing suggests itself from here. Perhaps I could understand better if I came along and looked at the desk,” I hoped that his reticence was due to the possibility of being overheard in the dining room, and that he might be more forthcoming in his own rooms.

  He agreed to this and led the way out to the hall and into the lift — a device I had never yet used during my stay at Hyacinth House. It was fairly new and in good working order, but I simply did not like the sensation of being closed into a rattling cage, no matter how prettily gilded its bars. But I was twenty-one and fairly athletic, I could run up and down every stair in the building for an hour or more; however, the Baron was sixty if he was a day and somewhat blessed in avoirdupois, so I accepted the ride in the lift with as much grace as I could.

  The Baron’s rooms were on the second floor at the front, overlooking St. James’s Street, a large square sitting-room with a deep curtained alcove for a bedroom. All of the rooms at the Hyacinth were decorated in slightly different styles, and the Baron’s rooms were richly appointed in red plush and Louis XV reproductions, rather magnificent though a bit stuffy, in the manner of the last century.

  “Is this where the papers were kept?” I asked, indicating a lovely writing-desk of rosewood marquetry and ormolu mounts stationed between the heavily draped windows.

  “Yes, that is the desk,” the Baron seemed even more nervous in his room than he did downstairs.

  “Not locked,” I observed, sliding back the inlaid cover to reveal the stamped-leather writing surface and rows of pigeon-hole drawers, “No point bolting the barn door after the horse has run off, what? Not that these locks would present much of a challenge, I could pick them myself with a tie-pin. There are scratches here, though, by the latch. I think the lock was jimmied with a paper-knife or something of the sort, though that could have been done by anyone in the last twenty years.”

  “I see,” the Baron said, tersely. I turned to look at him, my curiosity over his behavior taking flame.

  “What are you trying to conceal, Gustaaf?” I asked simply and perhaps a bit brutally.

  “I do not know what you mean,” the Baron sniffed. He was a fairly smooth liar, he’d have to be as a diplomat; but I am an expert at finding people’s little ‘tells’ when they were bluffing, and I had taken the Baron’s measure already: the careful stillness of the body and the distancing hauteur of tone were as clear of signals of lying as a klaxon announcing the advent of a speeding lorry.

  “I don’t understand why you asked me to investigate something, and then go as coy as a clam when I do investigate,” I explained, crossing my arms and staring at him in challenge.

  The Baron stared right back at me, struggling with some internal difficulty, and then finally shook his head and ground out, “It is embarrassing.”

  “Come now, Gustaaf,” I smiled at him warmly, walking over and putting my hand on his shoulder, “We’re all men together. Spit it out.”

  “There is another person who had access to this room while the papers were here,” h
e hung his head and refused to meet my eye.

  “A prostitute?” I hazarded a guess, and saw I was right when his face went as red as the upholstery.

  “I am so ashamed.”

  “Whatever for?” I herded him into an armchair by the cold fireplace and took a seat opposite him, “Men have needs. And men of our sort have needs that are harder to satisfy when we reach what are called our ‘autumn years.’ There’s no shame in seeking the solace of a paid companion.”

  “You are very kind, Sebastian,” he said, a little shaken but relieved that I wasn’t going to denounce him as a filthy lecher.

  “Nothing of the sort,” I objected, “I’ve hired them myself on occasion when I needed immediate relief for a certain sort of itch.”

  “You surprise me!” he goggled at me. He probably assumed that with my looks, I could get anyone I wanted; I could, usually, but it often took a great deal of cajoling tact and pints of ale to break down a man’s resistance to his own desires. A simple sovereign obviated the need for such effort.

  “So tell me about this boy,” I leaned back and crossed my legs, “But why don’t you ring for some drinks, first? You look like you could use a stiff one.”

  He reached over to pull on the bell by the fireplace, and I made a mental note to find out how the bells in this place worked; I knew that the bell-pull in my room rang two corresponding bells, one in the staff room and one in Pond’s own room, but I didn’t yet grasp the mechanism of the thing, nor how Pond managed to turn up so quickly if the bells were so far off.

  In due course, the Baron’s manservant came in, a great hulking brute of a blond Swede in military-style black livery, whom I’d seen around the hotel from distances but had never seen close-to. He was impressive and a little frightening, looming silently over one like the cliffs of Dover with a drinks tray sticking out halfway up. Pond once told me that the other staff referred to him as Frankenstein’s Monster.

  “Dank je wel, Nilssen. Zal dat alles,” the Baron dismissed the cliff, who lurched noiselessly out of the room.