by Ngaio Marsh
‘Yes, thank you, Lady Carrados. I’ve got all that.’
‘Of course you have.’
‘It’s a mausoleum,’ said Bridget, ‘but it’ll do. I’ve got a letter from Sarah Alleyn, Donna. Her grandmother, your Lady Alleyn, you know, is taking a flat for the season. Donna, please, I want Sarah asked for everything. Does Miss Harris know?’
‘Yes, thank you, Miss Carrados. I beg pardon,’ said Miss Harris in some confusion, ‘I should have said, Miss O’Brien, shouldn’t I?’
‘Help, yes! Don’t fall into that trap whatever you do,’ cried Bridget. ‘Sorry, Donna darling, but really!’
‘Ssh!’ said Lady Carrados mildly. ‘Are those your letters?’
‘Yes. All the invitations. I’ve put a black mark against the ones I really do jib at and all the rest will just have to be sorted out. Oh, and I’ve put a big Y on the ones I want specially not to miss. And—’
The door opened again and the photograph on the dressing-table limped into the room.
Sir Herbert Carrados was just a little too good to be true. He was tall and soldierly and good-looking. He had thin sandy hair, a large guardsman’s moustache, heavy eyebrows and rather foolish light eyes. You did not notice they were foolish because his eyebrows gave them a spurious fierceness. He was not, however, a stupid man but only a rather vain and pompous one. It was his pride that he looked like a soldier and not like a successful financier. During the Great War he had held down a staff appointment of bewildering unimportance which had kept him in Tunbridge Wells for the duration and which had not hampered his sound and at times brilliant activities in the City. He limped a little and used a stick. Most people took it as a matter of course that he had been wounded in the leg, and so he had—by a careless gamekeeper. He attended military reunions with the greatest assiduity and was about to stand for Parliament.
Bridget called him Bart, which he rather liked, but he occasionally surprised a look of irony in her eyes and that he did not at all enjoy.
This morning he had The Times under his arm and an expression of forbearance on his face. He kissed his wife, greeted Miss Harris with precisely the correct shade of cordiality, and raised his eyebrows at his stepdaughter.
‘Good morning, Bridget. I thought you were still in bed.’
‘Good morning, Bart,’ said Bridget. ‘Why?’
‘You were not at breakfast. Don’t you think perhaps it would be more considerate to the servants if you breakfasted before you started making plans?’
‘I expect it would,’ agreed Bridget and went as far as the door.
‘What are your plans for today, darling?’ continued Sir Herbert, smiling at his wife.
‘Oh—everything. Bridget’s dance. Miss Harris and I are—are going into expense, Herbert.’
‘Ah, yes?’ murmured Sir Herbert. ‘I’m sure Miss Harris is a perfect dragon with figures. What’s the total, Miss Harris?’
‘For the ball, Sir Herbert?’ Miss Harris glanced at Lady Carrados who nodded a little nervously. ‘It’s about a thousand pounds.’
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Sir Herbert and let his eyeglass fall.
‘You see, darling,’ began his wife in a hurry, ‘it just won’t come down to less. Even with Arthur’s house. And if we have champagne at the buffet—’
‘I cannot see the smallest necessity for champagne at the buffet, Evelyn. If these young cubs can’t get enough to drink in the supper-room all I can say is, they drink a great deal too much. I must say,’ continued Sir Herbert with an air of discovery, ‘that I do not understand the mentality of modern youths. Gambling too much, drinking too much, no object in life—look at that young Potter.’
‘If you mean Donald Potter,’ said Bridget dangerously, ‘I must—’
‘Bridgie!’ said her mother.
‘You’re wandering from the point, Bridget,’ said her stepfather.
‘Me!’
‘My point is,’ said Sir Herbert with a martyred glance at his wife, ‘that the young people expect a great deal too much nowadays. Champagne at every table—’
‘It’s not that—’ began Bridget from the door.
‘It’s only that it saves—’ interrupted her mother.
‘However,’ continued Sir Herbert with an air of patient courtesy, ‘if you feel that you can afford to spend a thousand pounds on an evening, my dear—’
‘But it isn’t all Donna’s money,’ objected Bridget. ‘It’s half mine. Daddy left—’
‘Bridget, darling,’ said Lady Carrados, ‘breakfast.’
‘Sorry, Donna,’ said Bridget. ‘All right.’ She went out.
Miss Harris wondered if she too had better go, but nobody seemed to remember she was in the room and she did not quite like to remind them of her presence by making a move. Lady Carrados with an odd mixture of nervousness and determination was talking rapidly.
‘I know Paddy would have meant some of Bridgie’s money to be used for her coming out, Herbert. It isn’t as if—’
‘My dear,’ said Sir Herbert with an ineffable air of tactful reproach, and a glance at Miss Harris. ‘Of course. It’s entirely for you and Bridget to decide. Naturally. I wouldn’t dream of interfering. I’m just rather an old fool and like to give any help I can. Don’t pay any attention.’
Lady Carrados was saved the necessity of making any reply to this embarrassing speech by the entrance of the maid.
‘Lord Robert Gospell has called, m’lady, and wonders if—’
‘’Morning, Evelyn,’ said an extraordinarily high-pitched voice outside the door. ‘I’ve come up. Do let me in.’
‘Bunchy!’ cried Lady Carrados in delight. ‘How lovely! Come in!’
And Lord Robert. Gospell, panting a little under the burden of an enormous bunch of daffodils, toddled into the room.
On the same day that Lord Robert Gospell called on Lady Carrados, Lady Carrados herself called on Sir Daniel Davidson in his consulting-rooms in Harley Street. She talked to him for a long time and at the end of half an hour sat staring rather desperately across the desk into his large black eyes.
‘I’m frightfully anxious, naturally, that Bridgie shouldn’t get the idea that there’s anything the matter with me,’ she said.
‘There is nothing specifically wrong with you,’ said Davidson, spreading out his long hands. ‘Nothing, I mean, in the sense of your heart being overworked or your lungs at all unsound or any nonsense of that sort. I don’t think you are anaemic. The blood test will clear all that up. But’—and he leant forward and pointed a finger at her—‘but you are very tired. You’re altogether too tired. If I was an honest physician I’d tell you to go into a nursing-home and lead the life of a placid cow for three weeks.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Can’t your daughter come out next year? What about the little season?’
‘Oh, no, it’s impossible. Really. My uncle has lent us his house for the dance. She’s planned everything. It would be almost as much trouble to put things off as it is to go on with them. I’ll be all right, only I do rather feel as if I’ve got a jellyfish instead of a brain. A wobbly jellyfish. I get these curious giddy attacks. And I simply can’t stop bothering about things.’
‘I know. What about this ball? I suppose you’re hard at it over that?’
‘I’m handing it all over to my secretary and Dimitri. I hope you’re coming. You’ll get a card.’
‘I shall be delighted, but I wish you’d give it up.’
‘Truly I can’t.’
‘Have you got any particular worry?’
There was a long pause.
‘Yes,’ said Evelyn Carrados, ‘but I can’t tell you about that.’
‘Ah, well,’ said Sir Daniel, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Les maladies suspendent nos vertus et nos vices.’
She rose and he at once leapt to his feet as if she was royalty.
‘You will get that prescription made up at once,’ he said, glaring down at her. ‘And, if you please, I should like to see
you again. I suppose I had better not call?’
‘No, please. I’ll come here.’
‘C’est entendu.’
Lady Carrados left him, wishing vaguely that he was a little less florid and longing devoutly for her bed.
Agatha Troy hunched up her shoulders, pulled her smart new cap over one eye and walked into her one-man show at the Wiltshire Galleries in Bond Street. It always embarrassed her intensely to put in these duty appearances at her own exhibitions. People felt they had to say something to her about her pictures and they never knew what to say and she never knew how to reply. She became gruff with shyness and her incoherence was mistaken for intellectual snobbishness. Like most painters she was singularly inarticulate on the subject of her work. The careful phrases of literary appreciation showered upon her by highbrow critics threw Troy into an agony of embarrassment. She minded less the bland commonplaces of the philistines though for these also she had great difficulty in finding suitable replies.
She slipped in at the door, winked at the young man who sat at the reception desk and shied away as a large American woman bore down upon him with a white-gloved finger firmly planted on a price in her catalogue.
Troy hurriedly looked away and, in a corner of the crowded room, sitting on a chair that was not big enough for him, she saw a smallish round gentleman whose head was aslant, his eyes closed and his mouth peacefully open. Troy made for him.
‘Bunchy!’ she said.
Lord Robert Gospell opened his eyes very wide and moved his lips like a rabbit.
‘Hullo!’ he said. ‘What a scrimmage, ain’t it? Pretty good.’
‘You were asleep.’
‘May have been having a nap.’
‘That’s a pretty compliment,’ said Troy without rancour.
‘I had a good prowl first. Just thought I’d pop in,’ explained Lord Robert. ‘Enjoyed myself.’ He balanced his glasses across his nose, flung his head back and with an air of placid approval contemplated a large landscape. Without any of her usual embarrassment Troy looked with him.
‘Pretty good,’ repeated Bunchy. ‘Ain’t it?’
He had an odd trick of using Victorian colloquialisms; legacies, he would explain, from his distinguished father. ‘Lor!’ was his favourite ejaculation. He kept up little Victorian politenesses, always leaving cards after a ball and often sending flowers to the hostesses who dined him. His clothes were famous—a rather high, close-buttoned jacket and narrowish trousers by day, a soft wide hat and a cloak in the evening. Troy turned from her picture to her companion. He twinkled through his glasses and pointed a fat finger at the landscape.
‘Nice and clean,’ he said. ‘I like ’em clean. Come and have tea.’
‘I’ve only just arrived,’ said Troy, ‘but I’d love to.’
‘I’ve got the Potters,’ said Bunchy. ‘My sister and her boy. Wait a bit. I’ll fetch ’em.’
‘Mildred and Donald?’ asked Troy.
‘Mildred and Donald. They live with me, you know, since poor Potter died. Donald’s just been sent down for some gambling scrape or other. Nice young scamp. No harm in him. Only don’t mention Oxford.’
‘I’ll remember.’
‘He’ll probably save you the trouble by talking about it himself. I like having young people about. Gay. Keeps one up to scratch. Can you see ’em anywhere? Mildred’s wearing a puce toque.’
‘Not a toque, Bunchy,’ said Troy. ‘There she is. It’s a very smart purple beret. She’s seen us. She’s coming.’
Lord Robert’s widowed sister came billowing through the crowd followed by her extremely good-looking son. She greeted Troy breathlessly but affectionately. Donald bowed, grinned and said: ‘We have been enjoying ourselves. Frightfully good!’
‘Fat lot you know about it,’ said Troy good-humouredly. ‘Mildred, Bunchy suggests tea.’
‘I must say I should be glad of it,’ said Lady Mildred Potter. ‘Looking at pictures is the most exhausting pastime, even when they are your pictures, dear.’
‘There’s a restaurant down below,’ squeaked Lord Robert. ‘Follow me.’
They worked their way through the crowd and downstairs. Donald, who was separated from them by several strangers, shouted: ‘I say, Troy, did you hear I was sent down?’ This had the effect of drawing everyone’s attention first to himself and then to Troy.
‘Yes, I did,’ said Troy severely.
‘Wasn’t it awful?’ continued Donald, coming alongside and speaking more quietly. ‘Uncle Bunch is furious and says I’m no longer The Heir. It’s not true, of course. He’s leaving me a princely fortune, aren’t you, Uncle Bunch, my dear?’
‘Here we are,’ said Lord Robert thankfully as they reached the door of the restaurant. ‘Will you all sit down. I’m afraid I must be rather quick.’ He pulled out his watch and blinked at it. ‘I’ve an appointment in twenty minutes.’
‘Where?’ said Troy. ‘I’ll drive you.’
‘Matter of fact,’ said Lord Robert, ‘it’s at Scotland Yard. Meeting an old friend of mine called Alleyn.’
CHAPTER TWO
Bunchy
‘LORD ROBERT GOSPELL to see you, Mr Alleyn,’ said a voice in Alleyn’s desk telephone.
‘Bring him up, please,’ said Alleyn.
He pulled a file out of the top drawer and laid it open before him. Then he rang through to his particular Assistant Commissioner.
‘Lord Robert has just arrived, sir. You asked me to let you know.’
‘All right, Rory, I’ll leave him to you, on second thoughts. Fox is here with the report on the Temple case and it’s urgent. Make my apologies. Say I’ll call on him any time that suits him if he thinks it would be any good. You know him, don’t you? Personally, I mean?’
‘Yes. He’s asked for me.’
‘That’s all right, then. Bring him along here if it’s advisable, of course, but I’m snowed under.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Alleyn.
A police sergeant tapped, and opened the door.
‘Lord Robert Gospell, sir.’
Lord Robert entered twinkling and a little breathless.
‘Hullo, Roderick. How-de-do,’ he said.
‘Hullo, Bunchy. This is extraordinarily good of you.’
‘Not a bit. Like to keep in touch. Enjoy having a finger in the pie, you know. Always did.’ He sat down and clasped his little hands over his stomach. ‘How’s your mother?’ he asked.
‘She’s very well. She knows we are meeting today and sent you her love.’
‘Thank yer. Delightful woman, your mother. Afraid I’m a bit late. Took tea with another delightful woman.’
‘Did you indeed?’
‘Yes. Agatha Troy. Know her?’
There was a short silence.
‘Yes,’ said Alleyn.
‘Lor’, yes. Of course you do. Didn’t you look after that case where her model was knifed?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Charming,’ said Lord Robert. ‘Ain’t she?’
‘Yes,’ said Alleyn, ‘she is.’
‘I like her awfully. M’sister Mildred and her boy Donald and I had been to Troy’s show. You know m’sister Mildred, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Alleyn, smiling.
‘Yes. No end of a donkey in many ways but a good woman. The boy’s a young dog.’
‘Bunchy,’ said Alleyn, ‘you’re better than Victorian, you’re Regency.’
‘Think so? Tell you what, Roderick, I’ve got to come out of my shell and do the season a bit.’
‘You always do the season, don’t you?’
‘I get about a bit. Enjoy myself. Young Donald’s paying his addresses to a gel called Bridget O’Brien. Know her?’
‘That’s funny,’ said Alleyn. ‘My mama is bringing out brother George’s girl and it appears she’s the bosom friend of Bridget O’Brien. She’s Evelyn and Paddy O’Brien’s daughter, you know.’
‘I know. Called on Evelyn this morning. She married that ass Carrados. Pompous. Cl
ever in the City, I’m told. I had a look at the gel. Nice gel, but there’s something wrong somewhere in that family. Carrados, I suppose. D’you like the gel?’
‘I don’t know her. My niece Sarah likes her.’
‘Look here,’ said Lord Robert, spreading out his hands and staring at them in mild surprise. ‘Look here. Dine with us for Lady C.’s dance. Will you? Do.’
‘My dear Bunchy, I’m not asked.’
‘Isn’t your niece goin’?’
‘Yes, I expect she is.’
‘Get you a card. Easy as winking. Do come. Troy’s dining too. Donald and I persuaded her.’
‘Troy,’ said Alleyn. ‘Troy.’
Lord Robert looked sharply at him for about two seconds.
‘Never mind if you’d rather not,’ he said.
‘I can’t tell you how much I should like to come,’ said Alleyn slowly, ‘but you see I’m afraid I might remind Miss Troy of—of that very unpleasant case.’
‘Oh. ’m. Well, leave it open. Think it over. You’re sure to get a card. Now—what about business?’
He made a funny eager grimace, pursed his lips, and with a deft movement of his hand slung his glasses over his nose. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘We rather think blackmail,’ said Alleyn.
‘Lor’,’ said Lord Robert. ‘Where?’
‘Here, there and everywhere in high society.’
‘How d’yer know?’
‘Well.’ Alleyn laid a thin hand on the file. ‘This is rather more than usually confidential, Bunchy.’
‘Yes, yes, yes. All right. I’ll be as silent,’ said Lord Robert, ‘as the grave. Mum’s the word. Let’s have the names and all the rest of it. None of your Mr and Mrs Xes.’
‘All right. You know Mrs Halcut-Hackett? Old General Halcut-Hackett’s wife?’
‘Yes. American actress. Twenty years younger than H-H. Gorgeous creature.’
‘That’s the one. She came to us last week with a story of blackmail. Here it is in this file. I’ll tell you briefly what she said, but I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with one Madame X.’
