The Midnight Peacock (The Sinclair’s Mysteries)

by Katherine Woodfine

  Billy and Joe looked rather confused. ‘No – she wasn’t old. Probably about forty,’ said Billy, screwing up his face as he tried to remember. ‘Very smart with a fur coat and a big hat.’

  Lil shook her head at Sophie. ‘You ought to forget about the train lady – I’m sure she was just a harmless nosy old woman! But I do think it is rather curious that it was a woman you saw at the factory,’ she said to Billy in a more serious tone. ‘After all, we’ve never known the Baron to team up with a woman before. There weren’t any women at that meeting of the Fraternitas Draconum you saw, were there, Sophie? And women aren’t even allowed through the doors of Wyvern House,’ she finished, sounding quite disgusted.

  ‘The girl we spoke to said she thought the lady might be the boss’s wife,’ said Joe. ‘P’raps it’s her husband who is the member of the society?’

  Sophie frowned. Her thoughts were all in a muddle. One thing was sure though – they must let Sergeant Thomas know about the factory and the explosives. She got up and went swiftly over to the telephone, hoping he would understand that they hadn’t disobeyed his orders. They hadn’t meant to investigate further – it had just happened.

  She asked the operator for Scotland Yard and waited impatiently for the call to connect.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Thomas, please,’ she asked the clerk who answered.

  ‘I am afraid Sergeant Thomas is out at present, madam,’ replied the clerk politely.

  ‘Do you know when he is expected to return?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, madam. Would you like me to give him a message?’

  ‘Could you tell him that Miss Taylor called – from Taylor & Rose – and ask him to telephone or call upon me as soon as is convenient. It’s rather urgent.’

  ‘Of course, madam.’

  ‘Wait – I don’t suppose Detective Inspector Worth has returned as yet?’

  ‘I’m afraid he is still away, madam. Is there anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘No – no, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Thank you, madam. Goodbye.’

  Sophie stayed in the office later than usual that night. After their conference about Lindwurm Enterprises, Joe and Billy had gone back to work, and Lil had gone out on an errand to the theatre. Sophie had remained behind, hoping that Sergeant Thomas would telephone – but there had been no calls.

  The truth was she did not really want to go back to her lonely lodging-house room. In spite of their growing suspicions of Mr Sinclair, she still felt better here in the cosy office, knowing that all the usual busy activity of the store was going on around her. Somehow it was easier to contemplate her father’s letter here, lying on her desk as though it were just another piece of evidence in a case she had to solve.

  Thinking of it like that made her feel a little better. She picked it up once more, trying to look coolly at it as though it was a quite ordinary document and not one of the final letters that her father had ever written – a letter that suggested he had been well aware of what he was facing, and the possibility that he would never return.

  She leaned back in her chair, trying to think logically. The letter certainly revealed a great deal. She made a mental list, ticking each piece of information off on her fingers as she went. One: Colonel Fairley and Grandfather Lim had both known her papa. They had been friends – and that was remarkable enough. Two: they had certainly all been well aware of the existence of the Fraternitas Draconum – and it sounded as though they considered the society to be their enemy. Three: her papa had travelled to South Africa following the trail of a man who surely could only have been the Baron. Four: he had been all too aware that his mission was dangerous, and could go wrong. Five: he had made careful preparations to ensure that she, his daughter, would be safe and well looked after.

  She found herself staring again at the last paragraphs of the letter: If I do not return I know that I may rely upon you . . . to help my daughter. You have always been the best of friends to me – I know that you will be at her side, just as you have always, so faithfully, been at mine.

  Logic failed her. Her eyes clouded with tears, and all at once, she pushed the letter away. How could he have done that to her – just bid her farewell, and disappear off to South Africa as though it was merely an ordinary military mission? How could it be that the two men he had charged to take care of her had both died, leaving her utterly alone? For a moment, the letters on the page swam as she thought how different the last year might have been, if she had had the likes of Colonel Fairley and Grandfather Lim at her side. The unfairness of it blazed through her. Her mother, her father, Colonel Fairley – every single person who could have helped her or cared for her had been taken away. It was as though the Baron wanted to make her as alone as she could possibly be,

  Yet there was more in the letter, and now she pulled it back towards her. What had Papa meant when he had said that her mother had had ‘the opposite’ of an ‘ordinary girlhood’? What was the ‘greatest treasure’ which was ‘already in her hands’? What had he meant by ‘the truth about his work and the order’? What work was he talking about? For the hundredth time, she traced the shape of the words ‘the Loyal Order of Lions’. The lion was important – the lion on the red wax seal, the lion on the head of Leo’s cane – it meant something. Images of lions and dragons seemed to dance about in her head, like pictures she had seen of old flags and shields: Benedetto Casselli’s dragon paintings tangling themselves up with the tapestries at Winter Hall of lions and unicorns and knights and ancient battles. In the name of the Loyal Order of Lions, we shall rebalance the scales. Ad usque fidelis. She knew the last few words were Latin, but she had never learned any. She had no idea what it meant.

  Most of all, she wondered what it was that her papa had given Grandfather Lim to look after for her. He had said it would give her ‘all the information she would need’. After they had found the letter, they had searched Grandfather Lim’s box again – but there was nothing more that suggested even the slightest connection to Sophie or her father. Now she sighed, and sadly traced the shape of his initials once again: R T C.

  She did not know how long she sat there, staring at the letter, but after a while she became aware that the fire was almost out and she had grown stiff and cold in her chair. The room was very dark, and she knew it must be late – she ought to go before Sid and Mr Betteredge locked up the store for the night. She got up hastily and put on her hat and coat, tucking the letter into her pocket.

  As she closed the office door behind her, she realised that it was even later than she had thought. The store was already closed, and most of the lights had been turned out. Here and there a small pool of lamplight was still visible on the shop floor, indicating where someone was working late.

  She hurried quickly down the back stairs, and out along the gallery, putting on her gloves as she did so. Below her, the Entrance Hall was quiet and dark, but for the pale gleam of reflected light from the street lamps outside. There was a faint hum in the air, and for a moment, she felt uneasy. She had never quite got used to the shop after hours, dark and empty of people, and now, she jumped at the sight of some shadowy figures moving across the Entrance Hall – but at once relaxed, seeing the familiar figure of Sid Parker. He had what appeared to be a roll of red carpet over his shoulder, and Claudine was hurrying after him, her feet tapping over the marble floor, and her arms stuffed full of coloured cloths that Sophie realised were Union Jack flags.

  Union Jack flags – and a red carpet? They must be for the King’s visit to the ball, Sophie thought, staring after them. Her brow furrowed anxiously. Sergeant Thomas never had returned her telephone call. He had promised that he would take care of everything, he had seemed to understand when they had explained that the King must not appear at the ball, and yet here were the staff of Sinclair’s, still going ahead with all their preparations for his attendance.

  Preoccupied by this, it took her a moment to notice that two more figures were coming out of the Exhibition Hall.
One looked around covertly, whilst the other softly closed the door behind them, and then they began hurrying up the stairs together, talking in low, intense voices. Something about them seemed to suggest that they did not want to be seen, and instinct made Sophie step back into the shadows. As they approached, she realised that one of the figures was Mr Sinclair, whom she had not set eyes on since their return from Winter Hall. She watched as the two men passed by without glimpsing her – and then had to stifle a little gasp of surprise.

  The man Mr Sinclair was talking to was the police detective – Sergeant Thomas himself! Was he talking to Mr Sinclair about the party – could he be telling him about the assassination, and making plans to prevent it? But surely if he suspected there was a chance Mr Sinclair might himself be involved, he wouldn’t do that? A chill rushed over her as something unsettling occurred. Could it be that the two men were working together to take forward the Baron’s plan?

  She felt cold as ice. It would certainly not have been the first time they had encountered a crooked policeman, under the Baron’s influence. Now, she had the sudden, frightening realisation that she had nothing more than Sergeant Thomas’s word that he would help. What if he had lied to them? What if he had really been working for the Baron all along?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  New Year’s Eve in London dawned clear and cold, with frost shimmering on the rooftops, and glittering on the branches of the trees in the park. At Sinclair’s the staff arrived early, hurrying over the icy cobbles of the stable-yard and in through the staff entrance, full of excitement for the Midnight Peacock Ball.

  ‘It doesn’t feel like a normal day. It feels like a kind of holiday,’ said Violet, as she came into the cloakroom.

  ‘I can’t wait to see the fireworks!’ exclaimed Minnie, hanging her hat on the peg. ‘I do hope Mrs Milton will let us have a look at them.’

  ‘What I really want to see is Mr Lloyd and Mr Mountville’s show. Midnight Extravaganza, it’s called. Miss Kitty Shaw’s going to be starring as the Midnight Peacock!’

  ‘Ooh I’d love to see that!’ said Minnie longingly. ‘Just think – Kitty Shaw! Though I suppose properly she’s Kitty Whitman now she’s married to that wonderful Mr Whitman. I wonder if he’ll be in the show too?’

  ‘Well I shouldn’t get too excited about it if I were you,’ said Edith, tilting her nose in the air with all the importance of an Assistant Buyer. ‘Mrs Milton told me we’re going to be very busy all evening. I daresay there won’t be time to see any shows.’

  ‘But maybe we’ll get to see the King,’ said Violet. ‘We’d better practise our curtsies, just in case!’

  ‘Ooh – will we really have to curtsey?’ asked Minnie, wide-eyed.

  ‘Of course you will, idiot,’ said Edith witheringly. ‘That’s what you do in the presence of royalty.’

  ‘Fancy being in the presence of royalty!’ breathed Minnie. ‘I think I might faint!’

  Still chattering, the Millinery salesgirls hurried on their way, but a moment later the cloakroom door opened again, and in came Song Lim, hustling out of his coat. Behind him was Sophie, looking anxious.

  ‘No – no one’s breathed a word about cancelling the Royal visit,’ said Song, as he quickly tied on the white apron that all the staff in the Marble Court kitchens wore. ‘I think Monsieur Bernard would go off his head if they did. Everyone’s working like mad to make sure we’ve got the King’s favourite dishes ready.’ He reeled off the names proudly: ‘Fillet de Truites à la Russe and ortolons in Armagnac, and Chartreuse de Pêches à la Royale . . .’

  He’d never even heard of some of those dishes a few days ago but already, Song felt like he was staring to understand how things worked in the kitchens of the Marble Court Restaurant. All right, so he might be only a kitchen porter – much too lowly to do any real cooking – but even being in the kitchens with Monsieur Bernard and his chefs was an education. Now, he hurried off, not wanting to be so much as a second late, leaving Sophie staring uneasily after him.

  Everyone seemed to be in a terrific hurry that morning. All around the store, porters were whizzing to and fro with boxes, whilst salesgirls hurtled between storeroom and counter and back again. In the kitchens, Monsieur Bernard’s chefs were stirring sauces and whisking eggs at break-neck speed, even as Song raced around them, clearing away plates and saucepans. Just before eleven o’clock, Monsieur Chevalier’s peacocks arrived in their own special van, accompanied by a handler in white gloves. On the way up to the roof gardens, one of them escaped, and somehow found its way into the Millinery Department where Mrs Milton, who was a little short-sighted, momentarily mistook it for a new Maison Chevalier hat and had to be sent home for a lie-down after she realised it wasn’t.

  Meanwhile, up in the offices, Monsieur Chevalier was suffering from a bad fit of last-minute nerves, and could be heard declaiming that everything was going to go wrong, and if they had only let him create his Venetian lagoon with gondolas everything would have been perfectly all right, until Miss Atwood was forced to send Billy running for a restorative glass of cognac for him from the Gentlemen’s Club Room.

  Below them, in the office of Taylor & Rose, Sophie was becoming increasingly worried. Desperately hoping to reach Detective Inspector Worth, she had telephoned Scotland Yard three times more, and each time had been blandly told: ‘No, madam, I am afraid that the Inspector has not yet returned.’ At last, she put on her hat and coat, and hurried out to the post office. She had decided the time had come to send a telegram to Mr McDermott.

  Even as Sophie hurried down Piccadilly, Billy and Joe were making their way back into the stable-yard, after taking Lucky and Daisy for a quick walk to the park. The stable-yard was even busier than usual: not only were the usual procession of vans heading out with the morning’s deliveries, but many more were arriving, laden with supplies for the ball. Porters were struggling with enormous trunks inscribed with the words Maison Chevalier, cases of champagne and boxes of sumptuous-looking fruit were being unloaded, and Mr Lloyd and Mr Mountville’s band had just arrived with a van full of musical instruments. As the boys stopped to watch, they saw that yet another van was arriving, pulled by a pair of smart black horses. As it clattered past them, Billy gasped in recognition.

  ‘That’s the firework feller, that is,’ said old George, nodding in the direction of the big van. ‘Come to finish setting up all his fireworks for tonight. Quite an arrangement he’s got – he showed it to the lads yesterday. Shame you weren’t here, young Billy, you’d have liked to see it. A queer little box he has, what runs on a clockwork timer. He connects it up to all the fireworks with electric cables and it sets ’em off at just the right moment one after another – without him so much as lifting a finger! Like a magic trick it is. Clever feller, I reckon.’

  Billy was still gaping at the van. ‘But – but – that van – it’s got a dragon painted on it!’ he exclaimed, pointing.

  ‘That’s right,’ said George nodding. ‘That’s for his company. Top fireworks specialists, he said. Ah, you can always count on the Captain to make sure Sinclair’s has nothing but the best.’

  ‘Lindwurm Enterprises . . .’ murmured Joe.

  ‘That’s the one – knew it was some kind of funny-sounding name,’ said George. ‘Heard of them, have you, lad? Well he seems to know what he’s doing all right. He’s got his fireworks up on the rooftops of the buildings all round Piccadilly Circus – peacock colours he says they are, blue and green and purple and the like. Once he’s got his little box up there and connected, it’ll have ’em all shooting off on the dot of midnight. We’re in for a rare treat. You lads make sure you get along to Piccadilly Circus later and have a gander – you don’t want to miss it.’ He winked at them, and then looked up sharply. ‘Here, Tom – Alf – what do you think you’re doing monkeying about with that box? There could be crystal glasses for His Majesty himself to drink from in there, for all you know!’

  As he shuffled off, Joe and Billy stared at each other and then bac
k at the van. The doors were open now, revealing wooden crates stamped with a very familiar twisting dragon. A tall, powerful man with black hair streaked with white, had clambered down from the van, and was opening up the doors. Billy grabbed Joe’s arm.

  ‘Joe – that’s him! The man I saw across the road in that office – the man I thought I recognised!’

  Joe looked at the man for a long moment, and then to Billy’s enormous astonishment, he grabbed his friend by the scruff of the neck, and dragged him into one of the empty stables, the two dogs scampering after them, convinced that this was some new and particularly exciting game.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ asked Billy, taken aback.

  ‘D’you really mean to tell me that you can’t remember where you’ve seen him before?’ demanded Joe.

  Billy shook his head. ‘No!’ he protested. ‘But he can’t really be a fireworks expert – can he?’

  Before Joe could answer, they heard the sudden tapping of footsteps, and then Lil appeared before them in the doorway. ‘What are you two doing hiding in here?’ she asked. She stared around the stable fondly. ‘I say, it makes you think of the days we had to work on our cases up in the hayloft instead of having our own proper office, doesn’t it? Anyway, I’ve been looking for you all over, Billy. A funny little red-haired fellow turned up just now asking for you. He wanted to speak to you and said it was fearfully important. In the end he left a message but I had to promise to put it into your own hands and no one else’s. He was jolly mysterious about it. Look – here it is!’

  She held out a folded note, but neither of the boys even looked at it.

  ‘Turn round,’ said Joe in a low, urgent voice. ‘No – don’t say anything. Just look at that man unloading the boxes from the black van. You recognise him, don’t you?’

  When Lil turned back to them, her face was as white as Joe’s. ‘I’ll say I recognise him,’ she said, her voice wobbling with astonishment. ‘Good heavens – what on earth is he doing here?’