Lady Emmeline and the Swansong Caper

by Anna Reader

  “Are they?” Gussie asked, trying unsuccessfully to fold the voluminous broadsheet away. “I had no idea they were such good chums.”

  “I think that Laetitia is the real draw,” Purdie said. “She and your mother got on famously last night, and I expect your Ma wanted to cultivate her acquaintance, as it were.”

  “It’s surprising that Lettuce had time, really,” Pongo added, thoughtfully. “The poor girl is absolutely inundated with admirers – I don’t think our doorbell has stopped ringing for the past few weeks. She deals with them all so kindly though, and is never anything but a perfect lady. Firm refusal is the order of the day for Laetitia – she is, as you might have gathered, something of a catch, and refuses to lead the poor boys on.”

  Gussie looked rather perplexed by this, and said nothing – instead deciding to light a cigarette and ring the bell for coffee.

  “I do so envy Laetitia,” Purdie said with a sigh, pressing the point. “She is such a beauty, and terribly sweet natured. It’s awful to see her suffer so.”

  “Suffer?” Gussie asked, still engulfed in a dense fog of confusion. “Why does she suffer?”

  “Unrequited Love,” Pongo said dramatically, just as the coffee tray was bought in.

  “Good lord,” Gussie replied, rather weakly.

  “I’ll pour,” Purdie said cheerfully, as Pongo continued to lay her Puckish foundations really rather effectively, given her awful performance with Lettuce.

  “Indeed,” Pongo continued. “The thing is, Gussie – and really, one can hardly blame the girl – she is absolutely nutty about you. Why, when we left her earlier, she was composing an ode to your…horsemanship.” Pongo winced at her own lie – the fact that Gussie was an undeniably talented rider was literally the only quality she could lay her finger on under pressure. Gussie, however, dazed by this previously unknown sensation, hardly noticed the Muse’s freakish inspiration.

  “You’re saying, Pongo,” he uttered at last, “that Laetitia Beresford is in love with me? Surely there’s been some kind of mistake – I mean, good lord, she hardly knows me!”

  “That is entirely beside the point, Gussie,” Purdie said emphatically, “and there can be no mistake. Your appearance at the McVities party last night only served to…fan the flames of her ardour, as it were. It is you she loves.”

  Pongo moved over to the gramophone in the corner of the room, and put on a record. The strains of “A man ain’t nothing ‘til he’s loved…” came rolling out of the golden trumpet, and Pongo began to hum gently to its unambiguous refrain.

  “I think you should speak to her,” Purdie announced. “You owe her that much at least, and frankly, I don’t think she’ll be able to sleep a wink until she’s seen you again.”

  “Golly,” Gussie said, his disbelieving eyes as wide as saucers, “can it really be as bad as all that?”

  “Worse,” Pongo replied cheerfully. “I’ll tell Laetitia to meet you at the Blue Tulip at seven o’clock sharp tonight – don’t be late.”

  “No…well…no, of course not. Never leave a lady waiting, and all that,” Gussie muttered. “Cripes,” he continued to himself, “Lettuce Beresford…” barely noticing that the two girls had risen from their chairs and moved towards the door.

  “I must say,” Purdie observed as she and her friend trotted down the steps towards the street below, “that it’s almost rather mortifying to find oneself set aside so easily.”

  “I shouldn’t mind too much, dear,” Pongo replied, giving her friend’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “Gussie’s not a complete bozo – he must know you don’t care for him. And after all, Laetitia really is jolly pretty – batty as you like, but a beautiful gal.”

  “I suppose we ought to tail them later,” Purdie said, with a small, resigned sigh. “Make sure neither of them does anything to break the incipient spell.”

  “It really is wonderful having you back in town, Purdie,” Pongo said, in a rare moment of sentimentality. “Jolly pleased you got into Cambridge, of course, but all this sleuthing about with you is much more fun.”

  In a few short hours the girls found themselves heading through the subterranean doorway of the Blue Tulip, both smartly dressed in loose fitting silk dresses and acres of pearls, and perfectly made up with red lips and powdered faces.

  “Does Laetitia know we’re coming?” Purdie asked, smiling at the doorman and slipping a cigarette into its mother-of-pearl holder.

  “I said we might pop by,” Pongo replied, shouting to be heard over the strains of the live jazz band. “Didn’t want to seem to be cramping her style, but perfectly natural that we should want to lend some moral support.”

  “Quite right,” Purdie said, also raising her voice. “Let’s find a table out of the way, and order some drinks.”

  Before long they were both contentedly sipping on an Old Fashioned, and tapping their feet to the irresistible music. The club hummed around them: dimly lit, full of smoke, accompanied by the gentle roar of London’s fashionable set getting steadily inebriated on free-flowing cocktails.

  “I say,” Pongo cried over the strains of a particularly enthusiastic trumpet solo, “is that them over there? At the table by the dancefloor?”

  Sure enough, it was. Under Pongo’s watchful eye Laetitia had transformed herself from a tragic school-girl into a siren, replete with beaded dress, carefully set hair, and lashings of lipstick. The knowledge that Gussie thought her to be “ravishing” had also filled her with a new-found confidence, and she found herself flirting gaily and with the greatest of ease. For his part, Gussie was utterly transported to find that the girls had not lied –Laetitia certainly seemed to be taken with him, and he was thoroughly enjoying the novel sensation. As two pairs of eyes looked on, the couple laughed, drank, and brushed fingers with startled delight.

  “I do believe it’s working,” Purdie said, stamping her exquisitely-shod feet in glee. “I shall be liberated before the night is out!”

  The band suddenly struck up a rendition of “Farewell Blues”, and Purdie leapt up. “Care to dance, Lucinda,” she asked with a small mock bow, offering a paw to her friend.

  “Charmed,” Pongo said, accepting the hand and rising elegantly from her seat.

  The pair shimmied to the dancefloor, put a hand on one another’s shoulders and moved about the other dancers with some fancy footwork and energetic twisting. Utterly absorbed in their enthusiastic routine, neither noticed Peter Dashwood arrive with a group of attractive young things. He noticed them, though, and couldn’t help but smile as his eyes followed a laughing Purdie across the floor.

  “You’ve picked up some new moves in Cambridge,” cried Pongo, as the friends’ hands met and they spun one another around.

  “You’re not too shabby yourself,” Purdie replied, delight writ large across her face. After giving a very good account of themselves, the girls retreated to their table and ordered a second cocktail.

  “Crumbs, Pongo, where are they?” Purdie asked, looking about for Gussie and Lettuce. “They’re not at their bally table!”

  “Perhaps they’ve gone to the bar?” Pongo suggested as she scanned the room. “Or for a spot of air?”

  Given Lettuce’s fear of unpredictable movements and Gussie’s famous two left feet it didn’t occur to either of the girls that they may have ventured forth to the dancefloor. Yet there they were, twitching in time to the music. Neither was what one might call a natural mover, yet buoyed by the atmospheric lighting and the infectious music they had both recklessly agreed to give it a try.

  The last time Gussie had attempted something so rash in the Blue Tulip, he had rather exuberantly flung out his arms in a balletic flourish, and accidentally given a stranger – a rather large, pugnacious stranger, to boot – a black eye. Laetitia, on the other hand, had become all too aware of her ability to maim since head-butting the master’s wife. They started, then, in a particularly wooden way; arms outstretched and feet stamping tentatively from side to side – never quite managing to
find the beat – so that they more closely resembled a rocking statue than a pair of youngsters stepping out for their first dance. As their nerves began to subside, however, and as the live music worked its way under their skin, the steps became more certain and they each ventured a kick or two. By the time Pongo and Purdie spotted them they were engaged in a particularly unusual Charleston, flinging themselves about with a uniquely English, un-rhythmic abandon.

  “Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments,” Purdie said, raising her cocktail in toast to the bard. “I believe our work here is done.”

  “Pongo!” a male voice cried above the music.

  “Dickie!” Pongo leapt from her seat and kissed a handsome young man enthusiastically on both cheeks. “Purdie, you remember Dickie, don’t you? Rolo’s great chum from Sandhurst? Proposed to me last Christmas when he’d had a few of Ma’s cocktails – you know.”

  “Yes, of course,” Purdie said with a smile, rising to kiss Dickie. “How could I forget – it was really rather romantic.”

  “Well, I’m glad someone remembers,” Dickie replied cheerfully. “I certainly can’t. Fancy a dance?”

  “I should think so,” Pongo declared. “Mind if I go for a spin, Purdie?” she asked, ever solicitous of her chum.

  “I’ll take care of her, Dickie,” a male voice replied, as Peter Dashwood suddenly sat down in Pongo’s empty seat. “Off you go.”

  “That’s the ticket, Dashwood,” Dickie replied approvingly, with that irrepressible grin.

  Pongo mouthed a silent ‘o’ at Purdie over her shoulder, as she let Dickie lead her to the floor.

  Purdie, meanwhile, was deeply irritated to find that her heart was leaping about like a salmon, and that her first instinct was to be extremely pleased by this unexpected arrival. Peter was looking particularly handsome in tails, with his fair hair swept across his forehead and his green eyes looking across the table at her.

  Ignoring her body’s betrayal, however, she managed to reply with a comparatively cool, “I don’t need to be taken care of, thank you so much.” Peter’s lips twitched. “How do you know Dickie?” she continued, wondering again how it was that this gentleman appeared to have infiltrated her world so swiftly, and comprehensively.

  “Played rugby together at school,” Peter replied, over the music. “He’s an excellent scrum-half as I recall. How’s your cocktail?”

  “Delicious, thank you,” Purdie answered, slightly wrong-footed by the change in tack.

  “Splendid. Drink up, then – I intend to take you for a turn on the dancefloor.”

  Once again - to her immense irritation - Purdie found herself doing as she was asked, and was very soon being led towards the throng by her partner. She couldn’t help but notice the admiring looks of the young ladies as they passed – he may have been deeply irritating, but Peter Dashwood was undeniably an extremely handsome man. “Careful, old girl,” Purdie thought to herself. “Steady the buffs.” The toe-tapping jazz tune the band had been playing came to an end, and after a pause the quartet embarked on a much slower number. The couples on the dancefloor pressed closer together in unison, and Purdie felt Peter’s arm slip around her waist.

  He took her hand in his as they began to dance, swaying in time to the melancholic, bluesy tune.

  “Your young man seems to be rather…occupied this evening,” Peter remarked casually after a moment. Purdie, following the direction of his eyes, glanced over her shoulder – sure enough, Gussie and Laetitia were dancing entwined, gazing into one another’s eyes with misty adoration.

  “He’s not my young man,” she replied, tilting her chin defiantly to look up into his face. “Not for long, anyway. Technically we’re engaged - but I only said yes because I had a cactus in my back.” Purdie was taken aback by her sudden confession – why she should be explaining herself to Peter Dashwood so eagerly she couldn’t imagine – but it was a relief to tell him the truth. “I fully expect to be unattached again by the time this song is through.”

  Peter smiled – could she detect relief in his eyes? – and looked down at her. “You’re a very unusual girl, you know,” he observed.

  “You sound just like my headmistress,” she replied, answering his smile with one of her own. “Marches to the beat of her own drum, apparently.”

  There was a swell in the music, and Purdie couldn’t quite catch Peter’s reply. Was it, “I like it”? She wished she could make it out. Pongo suddenly swept past in Dickie’s arms, and winked at her.

  “So…what brings you to the Blue Tulip this evening?” Purdie asked him, secretly rather hoping it might be to do with her.

  “The saxophonist,” he replied unexpectedly, leaning down to whisper conspiratorially in her ear. “We think he may be the ringleader of an underground criminal network.”

  “No….” breathed Purdie excitedly, looking across at the band in wonder. “Really?” There was definitely something suspicious about the set of the saxophonists’ eyes, come to think of it. And as her father liked to say, one should never trust a woodwind player.

  “No. It’s my brother’s birthday,” he laughed. “We always seem to end up here after one of his parties.”

  Purdie, who had been completely taken in vis-a-vis said saxophonist, threw her head back and laughed in appreciation. Finally, the pair slipped into a companionable silence, dancing slowly as the singer told her story of lost love.

  “I very much enjoyed spending that evening with your family, you know,” Peter said at last, looking down at the blond head sitting just above his shoulder. “Your father is a terrific gun.”

  “Yes, I adore him,” Purdie said simply. And then a pause. “He’s ill, you know,” she said then, again finding herself lulled into uncharacteristic frankness. “He hasn’t told anyone, really. I don’t know what to do about it, exactly,” she added, glancing up at him quickly, almost shyly. “One minute I think my heart will break, and other times I can’t believe it’s real, and feel quite normal.” She shook herself slightly, trying to ward off the sadness. “I don’t know why I should be telling you, of all people,” she concluded with the smallest of laughs. “I hardly know you.”

  “Why not tell me?” Peter replied. “I’m terribly sorry, Em,” he added gently. She felt a slight constriction in her chest. “And I do know how it feels.”

  He left it at that and she settled into his shoulder, saying nothing more at present. The pair continued to sway and turn, and Purdie felt herself relaxing into Peter’s arms.

  “Did you ever find that cufflink?” she asked after a minute, again not sure why on earth she suddenly felt compelled to shine a light on the proverbial elephant in the Tulip when they were having such a lovely time. “Blasted Thanatos,” she whispered to herself, under her breath.

  “Bless you,” Peter offered, slightly confused and thinking the final comment may have been a sneeze. “No cufflink yet,” he replied slowly, studying Purdie’s face. “Though a chap who lives across the street from Lord Butterby thinks he saw a figure climbing through the window that night. Cufflink-less, then, but we do now have a witness.”

  “Oh, well done you,” Purdie replied brightly, urgently casting her mind back to that night in search of anything else her father might have done to give himself away to a snooping neighbour. “It’s so peculiar, thinking that someone would go to so much trouble for something so ghastly.”

  “You’re familiar with the bust, then?” Peter asked.

  “Peter, anyone who’s visited Lord Butterby’s house at any point since his return from America is familiar with that wretched head,” she replied, perfectly truthfully. “Really, the trick has been avoiding it, not seeing it.”

  “I’m rather looking forward to finding it,” he countered, once again looking down at into his partner’s eyes for any hesitation. “It sounds perfectly awful.”

  The song suddenly drew to its conclusion, and the dancing couples all turned to applaud the band. “There you are,” a ravishing woman cried, ploughing
through the crowd and planting a kiss on Peter’s cheek. “We’re leaving, Pete – do come along!” Peter tried to say something to Purdie as he was dragged away but the room was too loud, and she couldn’t hear him – so he simply raised his eyebrows in a silent apology, smiled, waved, and disappeared.

  Purdie stood there alone for a moment, nursing a sudden surge of disappointment. Peter had never told her he had a young lady in tow, but then, why should he? They weren’t exactly friends - indeed the only reason she knew him at all was because she’d tampered with his crime scene. As it were.

  “Hallo, old girl,” Pongo said, materialising next to her friend. “It seems as though we’ve both lost our partners – Dickie said something about going to a gin palace in Soho, so I doubt they’ll be good for dancing for much longer anyway.”

  “D’you know who that girl was with Peter?” Purdie asked, striving for an off-hand sort of an air. “Terribly pretty.”

  “Not the foggiest, old bean,” Pongo replied, irrepressibly cheerful after a top-drawer spell on the dancefloor. Dickie really was an exquisite mover. “His squeeze, I expect. Come along – Gussie and Lettuce have vanished, so I say we move on. I for one wouldn’t mind a cocktail at Dukes.”

  “Good thinking,” Purdie said cheerfully, trying to evict the Inspector – and the memory of his strong arm around her waist – from her thoughts. “I jolly well hope those two are engaged by now, that’s all I can say.”

  “Well, I definitely saw Gussie on his knees at one point,” Pongo offered, “although I think that may have been the result of an overly ambitious dance-move,” she added doubtfully, “rather than Cupid’s arrow.”

  Purdie chuckled and took her friend by the arm. “Well, one can only hope he carped the diem while he was down there. Come on, let’s go and toast my scuppered nuptials with a martini.”

  NINE

  Finally, the day of reckoning came. Lord Alverstock had successfully stashed Algie’s tripod and winch in the broom-cupboard; Purdie was wearing the harness under her clothes; and, hallelujah, there were kippers for breakfast – the perfect fuel for a caper of this magnitude. The father and daughter team were sitting next to one another in Lord Alverstock’s library, carefully running through the order of events one last time. When they were at last satisfied, Lord Alverstock drew two plump cigars from his desk drawer and offered one to his daughter.