Finally Twister came by at dinner-time, giving me an excuse to invite him to dine with me, and he accepted. After a week or so had passed from our tense contretemps on the occasion of my rescue from a Soho cellar, and I’d returned from my sudden flight to Foxbridge Castle, I formally apologized to him for my melodramatic behavior and we had resumed our friendly relations.
I told him all about the opera he’d missed, and the nightclub after, assuring him that he needn’t have worried about his reputation being tainted because Prince Henry and Princess Mary had also been there, and no more dully respectable people under the age of thirty could be found in all the kingdoms of the Empire. But he just shrugged it off: he hated opera, especially modern operas like Turandot, and had only accepted in the first place because Bunny seemed to want it so much; Prince George had merely been a handy excuse to oil out of it.
Over dinner he talked to me about a new kidnapping case he was working on, but without giving any confidential details, and I was unable to help him find any new perspectives without knowing anything about the people involved; but it was a very pleasant conversation and a very pleasant dinner, so I went to bed feeling very pleased with life in general.
The next couple of days passed in their usual idle manner, with me wandering around Town looking for things to buy and people to meet, loafing at one of my several clubs (by the end of June, I belonged to Brooks’s, Boodle’s, the Oxford & Cambridge, the Athenæum, the Bachelors’, the Savile, and the Turf; I liked to lunch in a different one every day), and seeing shows or hunting up new nightclubs in the evening.
Wednesday afternoon, though, I returned from lunch at the Savile and found Lady Caroline waiting for me in the foyer of Hyacinth House, looking somewhat distressed and mangling her gloves nervously. Mr. Delagardie was perched nervously behind his desk, looking even more distressed, and taking it out on a pen and pad instead of his gloves.
“Lady Caroline!” I stepped forward and ducked under her hat to kiss her cheek, “What in the world are you doing here?”
“Is there someplace we can talk?” she asked, her eyes sliding from Mr. Delagardie to the front door, intimating that she needed some privacy in which to unburden herself.
“Is it all right to have ladies in the library, Mr. Delagardie?” I asked; I’d never seen women in Hyacinth House before — and accustomed as I was to colleges and clubs, I’d never really noticed their absence until now.
“If your lordship would care to entertain her ladyship in the winter-garden, I will have tea brought,” Delagardie said smoothly, giving me to understand that ladies were not welcome in the library — nor anywhere above the first flight of stairs — without actually having to say so.
“It’s all right, Lady Caroline,” I said as I took her elbow to guide her through the dining-room, “It will be dead empty this time of day, and we can huddle next to the fountain if you’re worried about eavesdroppers.”
“Thank you, Foxy,” she relaxed against me slightly, “And you’d probably better start calling me ‘Caro,’ like the rest of my family, if we’re going to be engaged-to-be-engaged.”
“I swear, you have more names than I do,” I laughed at this new nickname, seating her in one of the pretty little bamboo chairs that filled the winter-garden, next to the fountain where nothing much could be heard over the rush and clatter of the water (I know because I tried eavesdropping on someone who was sitting there, without success). One of the lunch waiters came with tea and iced cakes, and left us alone immediately, “So, what’s up?”
“Claude has disappeared,” she said dramatically, like an ingenue on the stage.
“How disappeared?” I poured out the tea, “‘Cries in the night and ransom notes made of cut-out letters from newspapers’ disappeared, or ‘didn’t come home last night’ disappeared?”
“Neither,” she shook her head impatiently, “He went out to lunch on Monday and we haven’t seen him since.”
“Well, the police do say it’s not an official missing-person case until forty-eight hours have elapsed. Have you been to the police?”
“Of course not! If he’s just gone off with some friends and forgotten to write, and we have Scotland Yard out raising the hue and cry, the newspapers will rag us from here to Hell and back again.”
“What makes you so sure he didn’t just go off with friends and forget to write? He’s a pretty goofy kid.”
“Well, I’m not entirely certain. But he went to lunch with that Marquis de Mazan you warned me about, and so I thought you would know what to do.”
“Oh!” the whole matter took on a different complexion: if de Mazan had abducted Claude, the boy was possibly in serious trouble; and if Claude had gone off with de Mazan, either of his own free will or bound and gagged, and the police became involved, there would be a scandal of no mean proportion.
“So, what do you recommend?” she interrupted my reverie.
“Leave it to me, Caro,” I assured her with a patronizing pat on the hand, “I’ll get on de Mazan’s trail and find out what he was doing on Monday, where he went and whom he saw besides Claude, and trace his movements since then. A little breaking-and-entering might be fruitful, as well — and very easy, since he lives here. Pond can see if he can get anything out of de Mazan’s servant, if he has one. We’ll find out where Claude went; and, if necessary, rescue him.”
“That was quick service,” she looked at me admiringly, “Sherlock Holmes would have sweated me through a show of telling me things about myself that he’d discerned from my shoes and fingernails.”
“I’m not quite such a show-off as Sherlock Holmes,” I lied: I was just as much a show-off, but couldn’t deduce on the spot the way he did. I don’t think anybody could without having Conan Doyle script it for him in advance
“Well, now that I know where you live and which room I can see you in,” Caro swallowed down her cup of tea and set it down with a decisive gesture, “I’ll be chivvying you out of your burrow more frequently.”
“If you come as Charley, you can come up to my rooms,” I grinned.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You dreadful Lothario!” she laughed.
“Guilty as charged,” I grinned back.
“Well, I’d better be getting back home,” she stood up and started putting on her crumpled gloves, as calm and elegant as if she’d never been distraught in her life, “I’ll tell Mamà that you said not to worry, and that Claude will turn up ‘ere long.”
“I shall endeavor to live up to your confidence,” I said with formal courtesy, kissing her hand (I’d decided that hand-kissing was going to be my signature move with the ladies, since I was finding myself so much in their company lately).
“Stupid,” she rapped me affectionately on the back of my head before I came back upright.
“Ow!” I complained, rubbing my head. I would have to remember that Caro was stronger than she looked, and her playful smacks often really hurt. I escorted her out of the hotel, offered to get her a cab but was declined, and stood on the steps watching her flowered hat and fluttery coat drifting away toward Piccadilly.
Returning to my rooms, I rang for Pond and started planning my strategy. I would have to enlist the help of all the boys below-stairs, who knew more about our comings-and-goings than Mr. Delagardie did, and were more amenable to bribery; I’d also need to get a pass-key from one of the houseboys in order to examine the Marquis’s rooms in his absence. I wasn’t sure how I could trace his movements outside of the Hyacinth, but, with his conspicuous automobile, it shouldn’t be too difficult. I’d probably have to chat up every maître-d’ in Mayfair to find out where he’d lunched with Claude — if indeed he did lunch with Claude, rather than just knocking the boy over the head and carting him away. I’d start with the French restaurants, of course.
“You rang, my lord?” Pond turned up in due course.
“We’re on the chase, Pond,” I said in my best Sherlock Holmes style, “Lady Caroline’s cousin, Claude Chatroy, has gone mis
sing. I mean to find him.”
“Indeed, my lord?” he didn’t seem convinced that I was capable of tracking down a missing person. True, I’d never done it before, but it can’t be that different from finding stolen tiaras.
“I think the Marquis de Mazan abducted him,” I dropped the bombshell that I knew would obtain Pond’s full cooperation.
“How may I be of service?” he asked quickly, a gleam of vengeance slipping across his face before he could stop it.
“Well, first thing,” I started pacing while he stood like a statue in the doorway, “Talk to the bellboys and houseboys. Distribute half-crowns liberally. See if you can reconstruct his movements since Monday morning.”
“Yes, my lord,” he agreed.
“Also, I want to look at his rooms. Is one of the houseboys the Marquis hurt still on staff? He’d probably be the best bet for procuring a passkey.”
“Stephen is still on staff, my lord. I’m sure he’d be happy to help.”
“Does the Marquis have a servant?”
“No, my lord,” he made a face. A nobleman without a servant was a pitiful excuse for a nobleman, in Pond’s estimation.
“Bother,” I kicked the pouf as I passed it, “That was my favorite avenue of investigation. Well, I’m going to have to canvass restaurants to find the one he took Claude to.”
“Perhaps Mr. Claude mentioned it to one of the servants at Buckland House, my lord?” Pond suggested.
“Oh, he must have done,” I grinned at his insight, “If he hasn’t his own valet, he may have told one of the footmen, if they dressed him. Next time I go to see Lady Caroline, I’ll bring you along on some pretext, and you can question them.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“Well, get along with you,” I waved him off, “Take the change from my bureau for bribes.”
Pond ran away to the kitchens to start interrogating staff, and I betook myself to the telephone to ring up Lady Beatrice Todmore, the only person I knew who knew the Marquis as well, to invite her to dinner or tea or whatever part of the day she had free. I got hold of her butler, instead, who left me hanging on the line for a very long time before returning to tell me that her ladyship was currently engaged with visitors but would be glad to see me if I cared to step around to Park Lane.
I was almost sorry that I was already dressed, since I finally had a moment where I absolutely knew Pond was busy elsewhere and couldn’t stop me dressing myself; but I was in too much of a hurry, so I just grabbed my hat and stick, got a new flower for my buttonhole from the lobby, and set out to visit Lady Bea.
The Todmores lived in a tall, extremely narrow bow-fronted house overlooking Hyde Park, painted a bright white with blood-red geraniums in boxes at every window. I knocked at the door and was admitted by the butler, who was considerably younger than I had thought from his very raspy voice. He looked like he’d only quite recently left off being a footman, and moved as if his clothes didn’t fit properly. I followed him up a slim but graceful staircase and into an exquisite oval drawing-room decorated in needlepoint and cherry-wood.
“Lord Foxbridge, what a pleasure!” Lady Bea greeted me without rising from the sofa, extending her hand for me to kiss and waving her other hand toward her other guests, an older but very glamourous lady and an ostentatiously handsome young man, “My sister Pamela, Countess of Axemere, and her friend, Mr. Alexander Prescott.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” I bowed at them and took a seat on the sofa beside Lady Bea, accepting a cup of tea and a plate of cake.
Since I couldn’t very well start questioning Lady Bea about the Marquis in front of her guests, I joined the general conversation and waited them out. They seemed rather disinclined to leave, making me impatient and nervous, but then they very suddenly got up and fled, the Countess claiming that she forgot an appointment and must dash or she’d be late.
“She always leaves a room that way,” Lady Bea laughed at her sister while topping up my teacup, “Like the White Rabbit without a pocket-watch.”
“She’s very charming,” I said fulsomely, “It must have been quite divine in the nursery with you both there.”
“It might have been, if it hadn’t been for our brother. Nasty little creature, and he hasn’t improved much with age.”
“Speaking of nasty creatures,” I changed the subject abruptly, “I wonder if you could help me? I need some information about the Marquis de Mazan.”
“I’ve heard that you fancy yourself an amateur detective,” she smiled over her teacup, intrigued.
“Well, I’m looking into something for my friend, Lady Caroline Chatroy. She’s missing a cousin.”
“And you think Louis has spirited this cousin away to his castle adamant, there to befall a fate worse than death?” she smiled more broadly, amused.
“Well, not quite,” I laughed, “Though I do think the Marquis may be involved in the disappearance. Claude Chatroy was last seen leaving Buckland House to lunch with the Marquis on Monday. He’s not been heard from since. I can’t just ask the Marquis about it, without accusing him of kidnapping. So I hoped you might know something of his habits that might help me trace the restaurant.”
“He favors the Ritz for lunch and the Café de Paris for dinner, though of course he varies,” she said, “Do you really think he kidnapped Claude Chatroy? He can be quite outrageous, but that’s rather beyond the pale.”
“I don’t wish to be indelicate, Lady Bea,” I put down my cup and faced her squarely, pushing on to my next question, “but are you a sadomasochist?”
“My, that is indelicate,” she laughed gaily, “But yes, I am what’s known in those circles as a dominatrix. I like to dominate and punish men, and they like to be dominated and punished by me.”
“Oh, I see,” I tried to not look shocked, “And have you ever bought a ‘slave’ at one of the Marquis’s auctions?”
“No, I never have. Toddy did a couple of times, ending up with some rather shopworn boys who looked a lot better from a distance. But he’s always trying to get things at a bargain and then complaining when they turn out to be merely cheap.”
“And are the Marquis’s ‘slaves’ always willing?” I pursued.
“I always assumed so,” she looked thoughtful, perusing her memory of the auctions for tidbits that would support or belie the assumption, “Sometimes they looked rather drugged, but then so many prostitutes are drug users. And I’ve heard that he sometimes presents slaves who are supposedly unwilling virgins, and they go for the most ridiculous prices, hundreds of guineas. But I always thought that was part of the fantasy, relishing the idea and appearance of unwillingness. It’s easily feigned, so I assume it is feigned.”
“But it might not be feigned,” I insisted.
“It might not,” she agreed.
“Do you know if the Marquis is having another auction soon?” I wondered if I should give up on trying to trace Claude to de Mazan, or just show up at the auction and catch him red-handed.
“This Friday, I believe,” she sat up straight, alarmed by the idea that de Mazan might have actually kidnapped a teen-aged boy from a ducal family and planned to auction him as a slave.
“Can you get me in to it?” I wondered.
“Well, of course,” she put down her cup, “I have been invited, and can bring a guest if I wish.”
“Would you take me?” I begged, “Even if he isn’t selling truly unwilling slaves, I’m terrifically curious to see such an auction.”
“Well, of course, darling boy,” she grinned at me, “I would love to be instrumental in your sexual education.”
“I don’t know about that,” I backed away in alarm, “I just want to see what it’s about. I’m queer, but I’m not that queer.”
“When you grow up, Lord Foxbridge,” she leaned back against the sofa in a steamy pose and looked at me through her eyelashes, her enticing voice insinuating about my ears like clinging vines, “you’ll find that there are more pleasures and passions in th
e world than you have yet seen or heard tell of, or even imagined. And that if you say ‘No’ now, in the flower of your youth, you may never get a chance to say ‘Yes’ again.”
“What a depressing thought,” I frowned at that pronouncement.
“So always say ‘Yes,’“ she advised me very seriously, “Not necessarily to me, but to anything and anyone that even remotely sparks your interest. You don’t want to be fifty-something, sitting in Parliament and looking like a chewed up piece of string like your father, mourning for what might have been.”
“‘For all sad words of tongue or pen,’” I quoted.
“Absolutely,” she nodded gravely, “Now, why don’t you pick me up — in a private car mind, I do not ride in cabs — Friday evening at seven. You can take me to dinner and then we’ll go on to the auction.”
“It’s a date!” I stood up, delighted and excited, and bent to kiss her hand, “Thank you so much for being so frank with me. I feared you might beat me to death with your fan.”
“I can, if you’d like to try it,” she arched an eyebrow at me, “Fans are particularly delicious for beatings.”
“You’re determined to shock me, aren’t you?” I reproved gently.
“You blush so prettily, I simply cannot help myself,” she reached behind her to pull the bell, summoning the stiff young butler to escort me out of the house; as I followed him down the stairs, I wondered if the delicacy of his movements was due to weals and bruises rather than ill-fitting clothes, which started me down a whole train of thought (complete with images) that made me feel a little queasy and very warm.
Walking back home, I pondered the many things that Lady Bea had said, and also pondered if I could in good conscience wait until Friday to find Claude. No, I would have to start nosing around immediately: if I could save the boy from the Marquis’s cruel care before he was auctioned off, I really should try. So I stopped at the Ritz instead of crossing over to St. James’s, and started nosing around among the waiters and maîtres-d’.
Lord Foxbridge Butts In Page 23
