Lord Foxbridge Butts In

by Manners, Robert

  “I’ll be back in a bit, love,” I leaned down and kissed the top of his head, “Get dressed while I’m gone, and we’ll go do some shopping when I get back. For goodness sake, Pond, I’m walking to the other side of the building, I do not need my hat and stick!”

  I found the Baron just stepping out of his rooms, dressed for Westminster with his dispatch case under one arm and an umbrella under the other. He gasped when he saw me, dropped his case, dropped his umbrella when he reached for his case, dropped his gloves in confusion over the case and the umbrella, and then finally dropped his top-hat. Nilssen must have ears like a bat, since he popped out of the room and came to his master’s rescue before the hat could hit the floor.

  “I am sorry, Lord Foxbridge, but I am running late,” the Baron said to me while Nilssen put him back together like the White Queen.

  “I’m back to being Lord Foxbridge, am I?” I looked at the man with suspicion and surprise, “Very well, Baron van der Swertz. But before you go, I have some questions for you. And for your manservant.”

  “I have already spoken to one policeman today,” the Baron glared at me, “I will not speak to another. And certainly not an amateur. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Nonplussed, I stood in the hallway and watched him board the elevator, then walked slowly back to my room, where Pond was standing exactly where I’d left him, my hat and stick held out. I waved them away again and asked him to bring me more coffee, then went back into the sitting room to walk and think.

  That the Baron was angry with me was obvious, but why? Did he know about Gabriel spending the night with me? Was he jealous? That made good sense, but it didn’t explain the obvious shock he received at the sight of me, and the very furtive look in his eyes that made the anger seem rather put-on. Was he feeling guilty about something, perhaps? I had to assume that Twister had got an alibi out of the Baron that morning, but what was his alibi? Did Nilssen provide the alibi? Was one of them covering for the other?

  I wished I spoke Dutch or Swedish so I could question the man after his master had left for the day; and though Pond had been studying his dictionary with great zeal and application, I didn’t think his nascent Swedish was up to the subtleties of telling when someone is lying.

  While I was walking and drinking my coffee, Gabriel entered the room and, seeing me preoccupied, settled quietly into a chair and made not a peep. By the time I’d got to the end of my train of thought, I stopped and looked at him, suddenly grinning like an idiot.

  “You look very nice,” I said, noting that he was wearing one of my shirts and ties with his old gray jacket and flannels, which had been pressed and brushed to look almost new, and his shoes were so glossy I could see my reflection in them. His hair had been brushed back into a gleaming cap, his nails had been buffed, and he smelled wonderfully of verbena and lime.

  “Mr. Pond fixed me up,” he smiled sheepishly.

  “Well, let’s go out and fix you up some more,” I offered the crook of my arm to escort him, finally took the hat and stick that Pond was determined to foist onto me sooner or later, and asked the bellboy to get us a cab to Knightsbridge (I didn’t think Savile Row was quite Gabriel’s style).

  I discovered, as we scoured Harrods, that shopping for someone else is even more fun than shopping for oneself; I also discovered that department stores carry a great deal more merchandise than I’d ever realized: Harrods, to me, had always existed solely for buying Christmas presents; and though I was dimly aware that they had a food department (I’d always used Fortnum & Mason for such things), I’d never been further into the place than the perfume counter.

  It took a few hours, but before we made our way homeward, I’d kitted Gabriel out in enough shirts and socks and underlinens to last him a month, several suits of varying degrees of formality, a mountain of toiletries, some cufflinks and tie-pins and a wristwatch, a dozen pair of shoes, and even some ready-made evening clothes.

  And though he of course enjoyed the purchases, he seemed to get more of a kick out of modeling the clothes for me than in choosing them: he was a boy who took pleasure in giving pleasure, and he immensely enjoyed how immensely I was enjoying the spree. I found myself completely besotted with infatuation for the lad, and I fear we made something of a spectacle of ourselves in Harrods — I heard more than one sniffed ‘Well, I never’ from various biddies in diverse departments.

  By the time we finished, we were both tired and hungry, so we had lunch at the Ritz before returning home to put away Gabriel’s clothes and get him settled into his own room. He did everything he could to keep me there, practically seducing me; but I was firm (if you’ll pardon the pun) with him, and explained that the room was his for the next month, to do with as he wished. I was helping him, I wasn’t keeping him.

  Without even pausing to visit my own rooms, I went out and got myself another cab, directing it toward Westminster Palace. I had a feeling that it would take some of the wind out of the Baron’s dudgeon if I showed up unexpectedly in a place he felt vulnerable, without Nilssen backing him up and his own room to dive into, rather than waiting for him to return to the hotel.

  “Well, hello, Pater!” I surprised my father nearly into a fit when I encountered him crossing the great Central Lobby.

  “Sebastian! What on Earth are you doing here?” he demanded after he finished gulping dumbly like a landed fish, his bright gray eyes popping and his bulging forehead furrowed like a ploughed hill, his pointed Adam’s apple bobbing up and down his skinny neck as if playing peep-bo behind the rigid high collar.

  “I was supposed to meet a friend, but I can’t find him,” I explained, enjoying having shocked him so thoroughly, “You wouldn’t happen to know where a trade commission to do with fishing rights in the North Sea might be meeting, would you?”

  “Damn me if I do!” he bellowed, deeply offended. But then, he usually was offended when I was around. Other people have described him as charming, if rather stiff, but I was never shown that side of his personality.

  “How are the Lords keeping?” I asked blithely, knowing that it was a stupid-enough question to really irritate him.

  “We’re all very busy. Now get the hell out of here and let people get on with their work, you blasted young wastrel.”

  “Lovely seeing you, Pater,” I called out airily as he hurried off toward the Peers’ Corridor, no doubt muttering foul imprecations as he went.

  I eventually found the committee room where the Baron was toiling away, on the second floor of the Commons’ wing; but I didn’t want to actually interrupt his work, so I lounged in a windowsill overlooking the Speaker’s Court while I waited for him to emerge, like a cat watching a mouse-hole.

  “Good afternoon, Gustaaf,” I said brightly, falling into step beside him as he passed in the corridor, “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Lord Foxbridge,” he replied tersely; and to his credit, he didn’t fall to pieces like he had that morning, but kept on walking as if I had been there all along, “What brings you to Westminster?”

  “Visiting the old Pater, of course,” I lied, “The Earl of Vere, you know. He’s the secretary of something or other, I always forget what. We were having lunch. And please, do call me Sebastian.”

  “Lord Vere is Parliamentary Undersecretary of Tax to the Department of Inland Revenue, Sebastian,” Gustaaf looked at me sideways, wondering if I was pretending to not know what my own father did in Parliament, or if I really was as gormless as I looked. Though, honestly, it was news to me what the old buzzard did with his days; he never said, it had never occurred to me to ask, and he was never in the papers — I suppose someone who spent his days shaking down the rate-payers would want to keep a low profile.

  “Won’t you join me for a drink, Gustaaf? Saint Stephen’s, perhaps? Not the club, naturally, but the tavern in Bridge Street. We can have a quick snort in lieu of tea.”

  “If you wish, Sebastian,” the Baron acquiesced somewhat reluctantly. I took his elbow and led him out of the buildi
ng and across the street to the historic public house that was already teeming with Parliamentary hangers-on, news-reporters, and sightseers craning their necks at Big Ben. I found us a table and asked the waiter for a bottle of single-malt and a syphon, and leaned close to the Baron in order to be heard under the covering noise of the place.

  “What, if you don’t mind my asking, were you doing in Soho yesterday afternoon?” I jumped straight to the point without preliminaries, “And before you deny it, I saw you and your manservant on Wardour Street, heading south, at a quarter past four.”

  “I have no intention of denying my actions,” the Baron raised an eyebrow at me, “But they are my own concern.”

  “Are you angry with me for taking on Gabriel? Is that why you’re being so sniffy?”

  “I had not expected you to keep the boy for yourself,” he blurted out with some heat.

  “How did you even know I’d brought Gabriel home?” I wondered. He couldn’t have seen us together, and Pond certainly wouldn’t have said anything.

  “Someone mentioned it in the kitchen last night, and Nilssen overheard the remarks. They were very salacious remarks.”

  “I thought Nilssen didn’t speak English,” I pursued this sidetrack, astonished by the degree of knowledge already circulating belowstairs: despite Pond’s discretion, the sun hadn’t set on my bringing Gabriel to Hyacinth House before the kitchen was bandying his name.

  “He does not speak it well,” the Baron replied slowly, realizing he’d just given away his best source of gossip, “But he understands. By pretending deafness, he hears a great deal.”

  “Well, I’ll be!” I was impressed by the cleverness and startled by the duplicity, “Despite the kitchen gossip, Gustaaf, there is nothing salacious between Gabriel and me.”

  “Maakt niet uit,” he made a dismissive gesture; the discussion of this other topic seemed to have taken the steam out of his anger toward me, “I have no right to be jealous. I cannot care for him, and you can. It is none of my affair.”

  “And honestly,” I reached over and laid my hand on his arm, “I love the lad like a brother. Nothing more than that.”

  “Brother!” his anger returned, but it wasn’t directed at me, “That hideous oaf! I could not believe that creature has the same blood as my beautiful little Gabriel.”

  “Did you meet Mike Baker when you were in Soho?” I asked.

  “I went there, to the address you told me, to ask Gabriel if there was anything — within reason, of course — that I could do for him. I took Nilssen with me because I did not feel entirely safe in that neighbourhood, and because of what you told me about this Mike Baker fellow. Nilssen can be a very intimidating presence. But that awful man was not intimidated, he knocked poor Nilssen down the stairs!”

  “And how did Nilssen react to such treatment?” I asked carefully.

  “He waited for me outside, and we returned to the hotel on foot. I did not want to be remarked in that neighbourhood by taking a cab.”

  “Is Nilssen the sort to exact revenge?” I wondered; he looked the type who would gladly, if grimly, stab a man in cold blood after suffering an insult — though it seemed unlikely he’d have used the Baron’s own paper-knife, incriminating himself and his employer.

  “No, not at all,” the Baron did not seem to take exception to the question, “He is really very gentle, he only looks intimidating. He is a manservant, not a bodyguard. He returned with me, and we were together the rest of the night and the morning. If you’re trying to involve Nilssen and myself in Mike Baker’s death, I am afraid your Sergeant Paget has already tried and failed to do so.”

  “Surely you weren’t together the entire time?” I was surprised by that statement, as they would naturally sleep in separate rooms, but the Baron tended to speak very precisely.

  “As it happens, yes,” he looked at me steadily, “I am afraid I suffered something of a shock, confronting that dreadful man who calls himself Gabriel’s brother. I was — how do you say gevecht stressreactie in English? Shell-shocked, I think? — during the War. Whenever I experience any kind of violence or unpleasantness, especially if I am made to feel afraid, I react badly. I have nightmares. Nilssen stays with me when I am suffering these episodes, he reads to me and wakes me if I have bad dreams.”

  “I thought the Netherlands were neutral during the War,” I went down a side track, wanting to give the Baron a moment to recover from admitting that weakness; my experience with the shell-shocked is that they were mostly ashamed of it, and the subject had to be handled delicately.

  “We were neutral, but we had to protect ourselves,” the Baron explained, the haunted look leaving his eyes as he regained his emotional footing, “There were border skirmishes on the Belgian front, and mutinies.”

  “Thank you for telling me that, Gustaaf,” I smiled warmly at him, “I know that my curiosity can make me very annoying to my friends, you are very kind to indulge me.”

  “And my enviousness sometimes makes me annoying to my friends,” the Baron smiled back, “You are very kind to overlook my shortcoming. And since we are being so honest with each other, I wonder if you think Gabriel would be amenable to visiting me some night.”

  “I don’t think that would be wise,” I hid the flare of indignation that erupted in my heart behind my usual careless tone, briefly but mightily offended that he would ask me to pimp Gabriel out to him; but after the flare passed, I realized the Baron couldn’t possibly understand how attached I’d become to the boy, and naturally thought of me as just a fellow client, “I told Sergeant Paget that I’d keep Gabriel ‘out of work,’ if you know what I mean. No clients until all this police business dies down.”

  “Are you in love with him?” the Baron looked at me in surprise; I guess the flare was more visible than I’d thought, “I certainly apologize if I offended you.”

  “I’m not in love with him, no,” I admitted, ducking my head, appalled at my own transparency, “But I am rather infatuated. I want to do something for him, help him find a way to live without selling his favors. Unless he likes selling them, I hadn’t thought of that before. I’m not sure how to handle all this. I’ve never been someone’s protector before.”

  “At least your inexperience in these matters has the excuse of youth,” the Baron swallowed down the last of his drink, “I really must go now, Sebastian. I’m expected at the Romanian Embassy for dinner, I have to prepare my remarks.”

  “You prepare remarks for dinner?” I cocked my head.

  “I create a list of things that I may say and topics that must be avoided,” he stood and started drawing on his gloves, “based on the nationalities and ideologies of those expected to be present. I must also be prepared to portray my Queen in a favorable light to those nationalities and ideologies. Preparation is the greater part of diplomatic work.”

  “How terrifically clever of you!” I said admiringly, though I was thinking Sooner you than me, chum; I stood with him and walked out of the pub, seeing him into a cab, “Have a lovely evening. We must have dinner together sometime, next week if that’s all right.”

  “Good evening, Sebastian,” he waved as the cab pulled away.

  Since I was already so close that I could see its roofs, I turned my steps to New Scotland Yard, thinking it might be fun to drop in on Twister at his work, and see how he liked it. The big banded brick-and-stone Victorian building was an immense buzzing beehive of activity, with telephones ringing and telegraphs clacking and people shouting and shoes banging the floors. It took me some time to locate Twister in this hive, but I was eventually directed to the end of an interminable corridor on the fourth floor, which was relatively quiet and lined with frosted glass windows and doors; the last door on the left read “Chief Inspector Brigham,” behind which I found Sergeant Paget at his desk outside the great man’s office.

  “Foxy!” he looked up at me in a moment of pure delight, which he schooled quickly into a more quizzical and distant expression, “What are you doing here?�
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  “People keep asking me that, today,” I laughed and perched on the corner of his desk, leaning over a little to see what he was typing — reading upside-down is one of the most useful tricks I’d ever taught myself, “It’s true, I seldom get this close to the Thames; but people seem to think I’ll turn to dust if I step south of Pall Mall.”

  “Who else has asked you that question today?” he pulled the cloth cover over the typewriter before I could make out much more than the date and ‘Dear Sir.’

  “My father,” I laughed, glancing at other papers on the desk, which were all lying face-down to thwart the curious, “And Baron van der Swertz.”

  “So you were in Westminster Palace,” he surmised, “Did you get anything out of the Baron that I had failed to get?”

  “A more detailed account of his activities, an explanation of why he was in Soho, and an admission of suffering shell-shock,” I shrugged my disappointment, “I thought for sure I could pin Nilssen for this, though I didn’t think it likely he would use the Baron’s knife and then leave it behind; but he has an airtight alibi for Mrs. Nazerman.”

  “Unfortunately, both Mr. Baker and Mrs. Nazerman had lengthy rosters of enemies; it really could have been anybody who killed either of them. If not for the paper-knife, I wouldn’t even think to connect them.”

  “But the knife does connect them, and makes it all so bizarre,” I complained, getting up to walk around the room and examine the certificates on the wall, all of which were commendations for Brigham, with not one piece of praise for Twister visible, “Why in the world would someone spend good money to redeem that knife — it must have been at least twenty pounds, if not fifty — just to use it to kill Mike Baker, and then turn around and kill Mrs. Nazerman the very next day? It would have been so much neater to do it the other way around, and nobody would have known that Nazerman even had the knife in the first place.”