by Jack Murray
‘Harry, were you able to find out about the funeral?’
‘You were right, sir, it’s tomorrow morning.’
‘Any word of the two servants?’
‘No, sir, I asked my usual network, but they seem to have disappeared. By the way, the police are downstairs at the moment. I observed their arrival around ten minutes before you came.’
‘Not?’
‘Yes sir, the Chief Inspector is downstairs.’
Kit lifted Sam from his lap with an apology. He looked at Miller and shrugged in the manner of a man who cannot help himself. This was greeted with a smile from Miller. A minute or two later, Kit was knocking on the door of the late Countess Laskov’s flat. The door was opened a few moments later by a uniformed police officer. He looked at Kit suspiciously.
‘Can I help you?’
Kit was rather hoping that this could be his line, but he smiled as he saw the Chief Inspector appear in the corridor behind.
‘Your lordship,’ said Chief Inspector Jellicoe, ‘I wondered when you’d be down.’
Kit laughed guiltily. Was he so predictable? Probably. Jellicoe beckoned him to enter and they shook hands. He led Kit into the main living room. It had been several months since Kit had last been in the Countess’s flat. Longer even. With a stab of remorse, he remembered it had been a pre-Christmas drinks party for residents in the building. Another life. A time before Mary.
‘Well, Chief Inspector, as you already have me down for being a shameless meddler and curtain twitcher I may as well confess to my crime. Can I ask what brings you down here?’ Kit emphasised the ‘you’ to indicate his surprise that it should be Jellicoe.
Jellicoe was a man not given to natural displays of warmth never mind outward appearance of happiness. He had a naturally melancholic mien, amplified by a rather exuberant moustache. This did not mean he was depressed. Kit had long since detected a sly sense of humour which he wove subtly into his conversation and interrogatory approach. His appearance was less a reflection of his personality than a consequence of the serious and often sad nature of his job. A job in which he had demonstrated no little accomplishment. Kit liked the Chief Inspector as much as he respected him and that was a great deal.
‘Good question, sir,’ agreed Jellicoe. ‘In the normal course of events such a death would be dealt with by other people. However, given the rank, and religion, of Countess Laskov as well as the apparent disappearance of her staff....’
Jellicoe left the rest unsaid and glanced at Kit, who nodded.
‘Her death was of natural causes, though?’
Did the Chief Inspector hesitate just a second before answering yes? It was certainly Kit’s impression. The failure to meet his eye had Kit’s senses tingling.
‘It was a heart attack, I understand,’ replied Jellicoe.
Kit looked around the living room. It had changed much since his last visit. The walls had been given a fresh lick of paint and were now dark; much darker than he had remembered. The velvet curtains were black, long and oppressive. Previously they had been a cream colour although Kit had remembered they had seen better days. Black candles rested on the mantelpiece. It was difficult to tell, but there seemed to be a star shape on them.
Jellicoe looked at Kit surveying the room. He said nothing until Kit’s observations were complete. The two men looked at one another. No question needed to be asked.
‘Very different from when I was last here.’
Kit explained, in detail, what he remembered from his previous visit. After a few minutes the two men parted. Kit expected that the Chief Inspector had his own work to do and did not want to take up too much of his time. He went back upstairs to the flat.
Miller was waiting for him in the living room. It was clear he was eager to hear what had transpired downstairs. Kit smiled at his manservant. Once again, he reflected on the good fortune that had brought the two men together. He owed him his life. Afterwards, Miller had taken well to the life of service as well as the more unusual aspects of his role which had included, over the last year and a half, burglary, spying and leading an armed assault on an Indian bandit stronghold.
‘Quite a day, Harry.’
Kit proceeded to give the key highlights from his two meetings. When he had finished Miller suggested that a cup of tea might be in order.
‘Something stronger, I think. Now, Harry, a question.’
Miller looked up from the drinks tray where he was preparing a brandy.
‘How long do you think it takes for a young lady to make herself ready for the evening?’
‘Hard to say, sir. An hour?’
‘And if she were more like a chap?’
‘Ten minutes, give or take.’
‘I think that’s close enough. Another question, how long would it take to drive from Grosvenor Square to Belgravia?’
‘At this time, sir, no more than five minutes.’
Kit smiled and nodded in agreement. He went to his telephone and asked the operator to put him through to a Grosvenor Square number. Much to his surprise, the phone was answered quite quickly. This was a rare occurrence where Fish was concerned.
‘Ahh, Natalie. Hello.’
‘Your lordship. How can I help?’ asked Natalie at the other end of the line.
‘Is my aunt or Lady Mary available?’
‘Lady Frost is resting in her room and Lady Mary is in the bath, I believe.’
There was a pause on the line just long enough for Natalie to roll her eyes and wonder at how ridiculously alike, and simple, were men. Neither rank nor age made a difference in the matter of the unclothed female form. They worshipped as one.
Kit recognised after a few moments he should probably draw a halt to the delightful images coursing through his mind and convey a message instead.
‘Would you tell the ladies that I have returned from my meeting with the Secretary of State for War and Air. Soon after arriving home, I bumped into Chief Inspector Jellicoe downstairs. He is investigating a death in the building. Thank you, Natalie.’
Message communicated, Kit sat down and looked at the clock. It was just after six thirty. Miller looked at the clock, too, and then their eyes met.
‘Twenty minutes?’
‘Less, sir.’
Sixteen minutes later, Kit’s front door was virtually battered off its hinges by what sounded like a combination of fists.
‘Looks like you were right, Harry.’
5
Mary and Esther arrived at Claridge’s and went through the Davies Street entrance. A uniformed doorman greeted them as they entered. Inside, enormous chandeliers lit up the foyer. The black and white tiled floor gave the interior the feel of a painting by Pieter de Hooch. All around were young people, male and female, well-heeled and unlikely to be troubled by the need to work. It was as if every young officer from the War had come to Claridge’s to celebrate their survival.
Esther grinned at Mary and gave voice to both their thoughts.
‘Almost a pity we’re taken.’
‘Essie,’ exclaimed Mary but she laughed all the same. Mary knew that she would never be able to persuade Kit to come here. To be honest, she liked him all the more for this. Once in a while was more than enough for her. She didn’t begrudge these bright young people their fun. She’d seen what War could do a young man. Why wouldn’t you celebrate life? The censure many of these Bright Young Things received from older generations for living a life dedicated to frivolity was undeserved. Her generation had been tested to the limit in the fields of Flanders. It had not been found wanting.
She heard a particularly loud braying laugh from one young man clutching a bottle of champagne. The Cavendish sisters rolled their eyes in unison. Yes, their generation had proved resolute and courageous, but perhaps this did not apply to everyone.
They headed towards the restaurant and spoke to the maitre d’ who told them that they would have to wait half an hour for a table. He suggested they wait in the bar.
‘Why not?’
said Mary.
The bar was fairly crowded but quick thinking by Mary helped them nab a couple of free seats near the window. It was abundantly clear that their arrival had been noticed by a large number of the young men. Within a few minutes, an embarrassed waitress arrived and handed Esther a note. The waitress stayed by the table as she waited for their reply.
‘Didn’t take long for your admirers to make themselves known,’ said Mary with a grin.
‘Not just me, darling sister. Apparently these two young men would like us to join them for some champagne. They say they want to celebrate.’
’I can imagine.’
Esther looked at Mary quizzically then said, ‘You can be, how can I put it, cynical sometimes.’ This was said without malice and taken by Mary as a badge of honour. However, she couldn’t resist testing her sister’s own set of standards.
‘Shall we join them then?’
‘You must be joking,’ said Esther laughing at her own duplicity. She put the note down onto the table and scribbled a reply.
Mary read the reply upside down and nodded her approval. Then they ordered two cocktails. For the next twenty minutes Mary shared every detail of the recent trip to the United States. Esther was in shock at the level of risk to which Mary had exposed herself.
‘Yes, I was pretty exposed at times,’ acknowledged Mary, who had neglected to mention the dress requirements, or lack thereof, for her singing engagement at Lehane’s in San Francisco.
They soon were invited into the restaurant by the maitre d’. The table was at the far end of the room. Mary’s heart sank at the thought of having to parade through the restaurant with dozens of eyes on them. She suspected a few more notes would be zinging towards their table soon.
In fact, she was wrong. A more direct approach was employed by a couple of young men around the same age as Kit and Richard. Neither man could be said to be deficient in confidence, wealth or, to be fair, looks. It transpired she had met one of them before.
‘I say, it is you, Esther,’ said the first man. He was not especially tall, but his voice, dress and manner bespoke rank.
Esther looked up and smiled.
‘Hello, Xander.’ She turned to Mary and introduced the new arrival. ‘This is Alexander Lewis. Lord…’
‘Never mind all that , Esther. Is this the famous Mary Cavendish?’
Mary smiled up at Lewis and nodded. She had, for a brief period, become famous amongst the titled class for volunteering as a nurse during the War under an assumed name. She was, by now, used to her notoriety.
‘Can I introduce Bobby Andrews?’ said Lewis. The man behind him seemed to step out from the pages of a romantic novel. Tall, dark and handsome barely captured the dangerously easy grace of the man before the Cavendish sisters.
‘I’m sorry if we are imposing. I did tell Xander to leave you in peace.’
‘Nonsense, Bobby, Esther is an old friend,’ replied Lewis. ‘Can we join you?’
Esther looked at Mary and smiled apologetically. She desperately wanted to spend time with her sister, uninterrupted by the male of the species in full courtship mode. Mary accepted the situation was beyond their control.
‘We’d be delighted if you joined us.’
What possible harm could come from it? They would know, surely, that she and Esther were affianced. If not, it would become apparent as they chatted. There was nothing unusual, never mind untoward, in four young people enjoying a lunch together.
The two men pulled two chairs over in order to join the girls. Soon they ordered lunch and a bottle of champagne.
There’s nothing like the presence of an attractive member of the gentler sex to hasten the growth of antlers in the weaker sex. Within seconds of their arrival, and notwithstanding the immediate presence of two young adult bucks in the prime of condition, Esther and Mary’s table soon became a focal point for young breeding males pawing the ground as they competed for attention.
Sadly, or fortunately, predatory chaps lack the devilishly subtle mind of their quarry. This is doubly prevalent when the hunting male is known by such soubriquets as Bunty, Tuppy or, most damagingly of all, Stinky. Their intentions are as clear as a full moon in a cloudless sky. Their courtship modus operandi rarely stretches beyond a ‘what ho’ before delivering the life changing question about making them the happiest of men.
The English gentleman’s approach to romance is, famously, in marked contrast to the French or Italian man’s. For them, words and romantic gestures are necessary in order to cover for an absence of ruddy complexion and tweeds.
Paradoxically, the Englishman’s more rudimentary methods are both a saving grace as well as his downfall. He is a participant in an ill-matched battle. Women are brought up knowing how their future must proceed along prescribed lines. Thoughts of love only intrude on the mind of a chap by accident. This is prompted, invariably, by the sight of an uncommonly beautiful face. Thus, a life spent in harmless pursuit of sport, joshing with friends and recovering from hangovers is poor preparation for the one great game of life.
This innate incompetence is his salvation as it stops him from falling too much into the depths of despondency when the inevitable rejection comes. Furthermore, the rapidity with which he fires off these romantic rounds means he is able to try many times and, sooner or later, will manage to hit the target.
Several young men, mostly titled if their outlandish tweeds were anything to go by, visited the table under the guise of knowing either Andrews or Lewis. Whilst the latter seemed delighted by the company, it was abundantly clear that Andrews was livid. However, both sisters, as they admitted later, enjoyed the attention of these prime examples of the chap of the species. The afternoon passed pleasantly enough before Esther caused a wave of dismay to pass through the company when she announced it was time for them to return.
Offers to walk them home came pouring forth from these gallants. Polite refusals followed. No offence was felt as the sisters made manifest their gratitude by dispensing pecks on the cheek to each of their courtiers. This was as delightful to the recipients as it was palpably not enough for the tall, dark and handsome prime male in the pack.
As they made their exit, Mary stopped for a moment at a publicity poster on the wall. Esther was already out the door and thus did not hear her sister say, ‘That’s interesting’.
The rain had eased off sufficiently for the girls to return on foot to Grosvenor Square. Their arms entwined and they walked happily along the street laughing at the remarkable mating rituals of the men whose company they had enjoyed these last few hours.
‘I must say, though, Bobby Andrews was the absolute berries,’ said Esther, laughing.
‘Yes, he’s certainly a dish. Bit too cocksure for my liking.’
‘Really? More serious than Xander and some of the other boys. I think he liked you Mary.’
Mary looked at her sister but, oddly, did not disagree. Normally, young men tended to fall for Esther. She was probably more beautiful and certainly more serene company. Mary was ‘hard work’. In fact, she knew that Bobby Andrews was taken with her if the note he’d passed to her underneath the table was anything to go by. He’d invited her to lunch the next day. Mary had left the note on the table.
‘Still, it was a nice way to pass the afternoon. I was relieved when the other boys arrived, though,’ said Esther.
‘I know what you mean,’ said Mary, before adding, brightly, ‘Maybe we can go back sometime.’
Esther collapsed into a heap of giggles. She had been thinking the same thing. The short walk back Grosvenor Square was barely sufficient to catch up on the more detailed aspects of their time apart. Perceptive as ever, Mary did hit on one topic that was troubling the future Mrs Bright.
‘Has Richard decided about moving to Harley Street or not?’
Esther frowned and shook her head.
‘He’s not exactly a socialist but he really detests the way the system works presently. I think he wants to help people who desperately need
it. That, unsurprisingly, excludes people like us. So, for the moment, he’s doing locum. But that can’t go on forever.’
‘Good for him,’ replied Mary.
‘I agree but how that resolves itself remains to be seen. He’ll need money to set himself up in London. Unfortunately, as you know, we’re both a bit strapped.’
Mary raised an eyebrow at this.
‘You know what I mean,’ laughed Esther. ‘Having a house with staff as well as setting up a surgery costs more money than my allowance will cover.’
Mary grinned and was about to say something when Esther’s eyes widened in mock horror.
‘Don’t say live with Aunt Agatha.’
-
Natalie opened the door upon the sisters’ return.
‘Where’s Fish?’ asked Mary, surprised at seeing Natalie answering the door. Natalie explained the new arrangements which met the approval of the girls. Both felt guilty at having to ask the elderly butler for anything and ended up doing things for themselves.
‘And Aunt Agatha?’
‘She went to bed for a rest. It was a busy day. She went to an agency to recruit a new maid. Then Mrs Simpson was over.’
‘Did they have brandy?’ asked Mary.
Natalie nodded.
‘How many?’
‘More than one, mademoiselle.’
The three young women grinned at one another. It would be fair to say that after a rocky start, the Cavendish sisters adored Kit’s aunt. They certainly didn’t begrudge her a snifter or three in the late afternoon. As they were not due to see Kit until eight and Richard was still locuming in Kent, the girls decided to take a bath before getting ready for the evening.
Mary sank into her bath with a feeling approaching delirium. She sometimes read a book when so ensconced. Alas, in her haste she’d forgotten to pick one up. No matter, the feeling of the hot water and soap suds lapping around her body was compensation enough.
And in any other circumstances, she would certainly have stayed another hour. However, sometimes life has a cruel sense of humour. It distributes bounty and misfortune at random, often in bunches, sometimes mixed together. So, it proved when she heard a knock on her door.
