Lord Foxbridge Butts In

by Manners, Robert

  Hotel and restaurant staff are accustomed to being questioned by detectives, particularly private detectives looking for divorce-case evidence, so they’re very easy to get around as long as you’re quick with the pound-notes. The Marquis had not been to lunch there on Monday, but he had been on the last Thursday, with a young lady. When pressed, the waiter who most frequently served him thought that he might have gone to Frascati’s on Monday, a restaurant he’d heard the Marquis mention on occasion.

  The staff at Frascati’s hadn’t seen him in a week, but sent me on to the Dorchester, right back where I started on Park Lane; but there I struck gold: the Marquis had lunched there on Monday with a young man answering to Claude Chatroy’s description. But the young man was taken ill toward the end of lunch, and the Marquis drove him home. The porters in particular remembered the incident, as the Marquis’s Bugatti was so remarkable a machine; it caused some further comment when the Bugatti departed up Park Lane, in the direction of Bayswater Road, rather than down toward Knighstbridge, where the young man said he lived — nor toward St. James’s, dashing my hope that he was right under my nose in Hyacinth House.

  Tired and hot from walking all over Mayfair, I took a cab back home and got into a cool bath, where I lay in thought for some little while. That Claude had been ‘taken ill’ struck me as proof positive that the Marquis had drugged and abducted him. And though Claude had been taken north from the Dorchester instead of south, the Marquis’s rooms were still worth searching: the address of the place he held his victims before the auction might be on some correspondence in his desk, or some other type of clue amongst his possessions. I determined to break into those rooms at my first opportunity.

  My opportunity presented itself almost immediately: Pond had set up a sort of alarm system with the entire Hyacinth House staff, all of whom loathed the Marquis; the signal came in the form of a telephone call from the kitchen, telling us that the Marquis had left the house and was expected to be away for some time, having ordered a cab, which he was overheard to direct to an address in Hampstead.

  The alarm system was set up so that his return would also be reported, with bellboys stationed at strategic points to announce and delay the Marquis, so that we’d have time to vacate the rooms before their owner could possibly make it up to the third floor. Pond and I went up to the rooms, which were twin to Baron van der Swertz’s rooms on the second floor, so the layout was familiar to me.

  The Marquis’s rooms were done in a sort of Russian style, with gold-stamped oxblood leather paneling and heavy gilded furniture covered in deep maroon velvet, warm and lovely and extremely masculine, not at all as sinister as I’d imagined it would be. However, further examination showed an ugly underside: steel shackles were fixed to the brackets that held the curtain-rod in the alcove archway, fastened with heavy leather braids; a wardrobe revealed an array of whips, crops, and cats arrayed with a chilling precision; a drawer contained a number of devices whose purposes I couldn’t even guess, though the shapes of some of them indicated they might be clamped or inserted about a human body.

  Pond went through the Marquis’s clothes, noting the names of his tailors, cleaners, and launderers in a notebook, searching the pockets for tell-tale slips of paper or printed matchboxes, and returning everything to its place so that it didn’t look disturbed in the slightest way. I thought I was good at going through a person’s things without anyone knowing, but Pond was a master — the clandestine way he handled the garments was a pleasure to watch.

  I busied myself with the desk, which contained a great many papers and bills and letters, too many for me to possibly examine in one night. There was nothing labeled “Kidnapped Boys Kept Here,” so it was pretty heavy weather: I wrote down every address I encountered, with a note as to what the address was written on and what it seemed to be, and a summary of its contents, so I could study it all at my leisure.

  The most suggestive thing I came across was a cardboard wallet containing the deeds and other papers for a half-dozen row houses in Ilford, with lots of cheque-stubs and letters attached to each one, indicating that they were income-producing properties rather than storage for abductees; I’d have to compare the deeds to the addresses on the rent-cheques, which would take some time, to see if any of them were untenanted; or I could just go out to Ilford in the morning and take a look.

  All in all a very profitable job, executed in just over an hour and well before the Marquis returned. I felt just like Raffles as Pond and I skulked back to my rooms to organize our plunder — though it was more like swotting for exams as we tried to make sense of it all. We sat down together at the little dining-table, tore the pages out of our notebooks, and sorted the slips of information into three piles: Promising, Unpromising, and Obviously Useless.

  The Promising pile was made up mostly of copied hotel bills, from a number of little-known establishments around Mayfair and Westminster, which seemed to be for ballrooms or supper-rooms in which auctions might have been held; there were a couple from Masonic lodges, and catering-halls that could serve as recital rooms, which seemed even better suited to the purpose. The Unpromising pile was the largest, constituted of private correspondence to and from people we did not know at addresses that could only be residential; but it had some potential in case I had to track down the Marquis’s auction clientele if Claude was not recovered on Friday. And then the Obviously Useless pile was bills and correspondence from tailors and restaurants and garages, all of which had an inescapably everyday feel to them.

  I wished I could talk to Twister about all of this, but I didn’t dare: he would be very cross that we hadn’t reported Claude’s disappearance to the police, and absolutely furious with me for illegally searching the Marquis’s rooms; if he found out that I intended to attend a prostitution/slavery auction, he’d probably have me arrested.

  ******

  The next morning after breakfast, Pond dressed me in my most inconspicuous suit so that I could at least try to blend in with a suburban crowd. Heading out into the street, I asked a cabbie to take me to Ilford, but he refused to drive thirteen miles outside of Westminster, even with the promise of return fare; but he was obliging enough to get out his A.B.C. and instruct me how to get there on the train; then he drove me to Fenchurch Street Station, where I could catch the LMS to Shoeburyness that passed through Ilford after an hour-long ride. I’d had no idea that “Greater London” was so big, and resolved to get an A.B.C. of my own and start exploring. The names alone would be entertainment enough.

  Arriving in Ilford, I found myself in an odd hybrid of town and village, with a great many buildings quite close together, but none more than three storeys tall. Asking after Montrose Avenue, I was directed off the High Street and to the south, into a vast grid of long treeless streets named after various dukedoms, lined with nearly-identical semidetached houses, rather squat but rendered pleasant by little gardens in front; the five houses in each row were faced in a different colour of brick, which gave them some individuality, and I suppose allowed the residents to find their own homes after getting squiffy at the pub.

  I found the houses I was after fairly quickly, as they weren’t very far down the road; they all looked prosperous and well-cared-for, and so incredibly commonplace that I had difficulty connecting them with the sinister Marquis. And absolutely none of them was empty. I chatted with some small boys I found in one of the front gardens, poking at a dead pigeon with a stick, and asked them if they’d seen a black-and-scarlet Bugatti roadster in the neighbourhood. They hadn’t, and I knew that no small boy would let such a spectacle pass by without comment to all of his fellows, so I had to surmise that de Mazan was not keeping Claude in one of those houses — he likely hadn’t laid eyes on Ilford after buying the property.

  Returning to the High, I found an inn and had some lunch, feeling rather sorry for myself. To spend an hour on a suburban train and then hike through a grid of identical semidetached houses, only to find absolutely nothing, was extremely discour
aging. The next train wasn’t going to be for another hour, so I wandered around a bit, but all I learned is that people who live in suburbs are not very interesting, and offer very little entertainment to the stranger in their midst.

  When I got back to London proper, I paused to collect Pond and went along to Buckland House; though I’d already discovered the restaurant that Claude had been to, I still wanted to find out anything I could about Claude that the servants might know; and besides, if I was going to start courting Caro, I’d want to have a lot more information on the family, anyway. Depositing Pond with the porter, I imposed on Lady Caroline’s hospitality for tea, and shared with her the fruits of my investigation so far — meagre as they were.

  Caro pulled me into her father’s study for privacy, hung on my words as I unfolded my tale, was suitably shocked by Lady Bea’s revelations regarding sadomasochism, and commiserated over my pointless exploration of Ilford. She agreed that Claude must have been kidnapped by the Marquis, that his being ‘taken ill’ was simply a ruse to cover his having eaten or drunk some sort of drug. Like me, she presumed that Claude was being kept in one of the many hotels for which I’d found bills in the Marquis’s desk, and despaired at the impossibility of searching so many possible sites. She was also very excited about the idea of the slave auction, and was thrilled that I planned to attend it to rescue her cousin.

  “But wait,” she said, after thinking it over for a moment, “He won’t bring Claude out if he knows you’re there. He knows you know Claude, and his family. If you go, you’ll blow the whole operation.”

  “‘Blow the whole operation’? Where do you get such language?” I gaped at her.

  “Here and there,” she said dismissively, “And I can’t go, for the same reason.”

  “Maybe Charley could go,” I suggested, thinking that Lady Bea might be tickled by a transvestite escort.

  “Oh, that’s brilliant!” she hopped in her chair excitedly, “Do you think Lady Bea would agree?”

  “I don’t see why not,” I shrugged, “Though perhaps I should introduce you, first. Unless you already know her.”

  “I’ve met her, at balls and things, but I’ve never really talked to her,” Caro had an oddly speculative look on her face, “And now I think of it, I wouldn’t even know what to do if I went. I’m sure I’d do the wrong thing and get poor Claude into worse trouble.”

  “Well, then, what should we do?” I asked, then immediately regretted posing the question when I saw her face light up with mischief.

  “You can go in disguise!” she clapped her hands with delight.

  “What sort of disguise?” I frowned, knowing the answer but hoping I was wrong.

  “A girl, of course,” she slapped my knee, “You know how pretty you are, and quite unrecognizable.”

  “Absolutely not,” I said with great fervour.

  “For me?” she wheedled, “Please?”

  “I’m sure there are a million other ways to do this,” I crossed my arms angrily.

  “I wonder if Lady Beatrice would take us both,” she ignored me, “or simply give us her invitation. We could dress you as her. She wears so much makeup, nobody would know the difference.”

  “No!”

  “Come along, Foxy,” she stood up and grabbed my elbow, hoisting me out of the chair, “I’m taking you to my costumier.”

  “No!” I wailed, trying to dig in my heels, only to lose my footing on the polished floor.

  “Yes!” she insisted, pulling me through the front door and across the courtyard to the stable-yard.

  “Oh, all right!” I gave up, remembering what Lady Bea had said about saying ‘No’ while I’m young and wishing I’d said ‘Yes’ when I’m old. I had enjoyed dressing up, if I was to be perfectly honest; but gender is a funny thing, and I was somehow afraid of not being a man, of being somehow diminished by taking on an alien identity.

  Caro opened a garage door apparently at random, and pulled me into the dark space; there was a very sporty red Lagonda inside, which she started up with a roar once we were on board.

  “I didn’t know you had a car,” I yelled over the noise of the engine.

  “We share and share alike in this family,” she yelled back, “Though if you want to be strictly precise, it’s Petterby’s car. But he’s at the Castle, he won’t notice.”

  “Do you have a driving license?” I gasped in terror as she turned out of the gate and onto Knightsbridge with such speed that the wheels on my side came off the ground for a moment.

  “I know perfectly well what I’m doing,” was her non-answer, laughing with maniacal glee when she nearly sideswiped another car as she barreled past Apsley Gate against the signal.

  Knowing when I’m beat, I just stopped talking and closed my eyes, hanging on to the side of the car with one hand and my hat with the other; there were blaring horns and shrilling policemen’s whistles as Caro careered madly through the streets of Mayfair, Soho, and Fitzrovia, screeching to a neck-snapping halt against a kerb on Goodge Street.

  The building we entered was on the corner, with an Italian grocery on the ground floor and a variety of signs sticking out of the upper floors at odd intervals; the largest sign, blazoned across a corner window, was ‘Partridge’s Costuming.’

  “Partridge?” I mused as we ascended to the second floor, “The same as your maid?”

  “Her aunt, actually,” Caro said over her shoulder, “Miss Partridge sent her niece to me, she was a theatrical dresser before.”

  “Is she a Lesbian, too?” I wondered.

  “Miss Partridge or my Partridge?” she grinned at me, her teeth showing in the gloom of the staircase.

  “Either?” I hazarded.

  “Both,” she smirked at me, “What about your valet? Is he queer, too?”

  “Of course,” I said, “One’s personal attendants are so involved in one’s life, I can’t imagine having to pretend to my valet.”

  “Well, the maid I had before Partridge wasn’t a Lesbian, but she didn’t care that I was. I never had to pretend anything, she just took it in stride. I think servants have to be a lot more morally flexible than most people.”

  “Still,” I said, following her into a brightly-lit, airy studio filled with racks and racks of old clothes, “I wouldn’t trade Pond for all the tea in China.”

  “All the tea in China couldn’t put that perfect dimple in your necktie,” she remarked, “Miss Partridge? Are you here?”

  “Ah, Lady Caroline, how nice,” a small round woman dressed in a cotton smock over a man’s suit came out of one of the racks, a bolt of fabric under one arm, a half-dozen pencils stuck in the big braided bun at the back of her silver-shot black hair, and merry black eyes dancing behind amazingly thick spectacles, “And you brought a friend?”

  “Viscount Foxbridge,” Caro introduced me with a negligent wave before getting down to business, “We need to get him into drag.”

  “For fancy dress, or for a gender illusion?” she asked, her head to one side like a curious wren.

  “Illusion,” Caro answered for me, “I want him to look like Lady Beatrice Todmore. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Todmore? I think I know who that is,” she examined me thoughtfully, “They call her La Pantera?”

  “That’s the one,” I put my oar in, “She wore a long straight black dress and a turban the night I met her, and a very nice sort of lounging negligée, dark gray with a mauve tinge, when I had tea at her house.”

  “Ah, I have just the thing,” she dove suddenly into one of the racks, “The turban will be perfect, it will prevent your lordship having to wear a wig. Wigs take a great deal of getting used to.”

  “And turbans don’t?” I said to myself, since no one was listening to me. Caro had followed Miss Partridge into the racks, and I could hear them debating various fabrics and cuts with the passionate intensity of craftsmen. I amused myself by poking around in another rack, examining Elizabethan doublets and Restoration pantaloons, then turned my att
ention to the signed photographs on the walls depicting a host of actors and actresses in a dizzying variety of historical dress.

  “Come, Lord Foxbridge,” the costumier emerged and took me by the hand, followed by Caro carrying a half-dozen evening-gowns on hangers, “Let’s have a try-on.”

  With no more concern for my modesty than Caro and her maid had shown, Miss Partridge had me out of my clothes in a trice, and put me up on a little platform surrounded by tall mirrors so I could see myself from all angles. But I was becoming so accustomed to it, I just went completely docile and let them do what they wanted, admiring my own figure in the mirrors.

  I was laced into the sort of corset my grandmother’s generation wore, with a stuffed bosom and hip pads, which was strangely comfortable after it was pulled tight. Then I tried on each dress in turn, and Miss Partridge swarmed around me with a mouthful of pins, tucking and pulling, bunching and lifting, looking at the mirrors rather than at me as she considered how the dresses looked from a distance. I was rather pleased by a dark violet gown with delicate sparkling jet beads embroidered on shimmering panné velvet, floor-length with a bit of a train at the back, which somehow made me look even slimmer.

  “It’s very nice, but not the sort of thing Lady Beatrice would wear,” Caro said when Miss Partridge had finished pinning that last garment on me.

  “Do I have to look like Lady Beatrice?” I asked, finally entering the conversation, “I like this one.”

  “Then this is the one your lordship should wear,” Miss Partridge beamed up at me, “Now let us discuss headgear. Perhaps an evening cloche would be better than a turban? It would make the head look smaller, more feminine.”