A Case of Blackmail in Belgravia (A Freddy Pilkington-Soames Adventure Book 1)

by Clara Benson

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  © 2016 Clara Benson

  All rights reserved

  The right of Clara Benson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser

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  A Case of Blackmail in Belgravia

  IT’S 1929, and Ticky Maltravers is the toast of London high society, adored by everyone—or so it seems, until somebody poisons him over dinner. Now it turns out that numerous people with secrets to hide had every reason to wish him dead. But which of them murdered him? For Freddy Pilkington-Soames, newspaper reporter and man-about-town, the question hits a little too close to home, thanks to an unfortunate drunken encounter with Ticky’s corpse which he’d much rather the police didn’t find out about—and thanks also to his exasperating mother Cynthia’s seeming determination to get herself arrested by tampering with the evidence. But a pretty girl with big blue eyes is demanding his help in solving the mystery, so what can he do but agree? Now all he has to do is hide the wrong clues, find the right ones, and unmask the murderer before the police discover what’s really been going on. That ought to be easy enough. If only people didn’t keep getting killed…

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  I WOULD LIKE to extend my apologies to the present occupants of number 25, Caroline Terrace, London, for depositing a dead body outside their front door.

  IT WAS A splendid dinner at Babcock’s. The restaurant was crowded and noisy, and the atmosphere festive. The manager had given them the best table, knowing that to do so was to ensure that the name of the establishment would, sooner or later, be cited in the society pages as having been the setting for yet another gathering of some of London’s most fashionable and influential personages, since it was an open secret that at least one member of the party wrote a gossip column for one of the popular papers. Forty years after its founding, Babcock’s, with its gilded ceilings, grandly arched alcoves and marble columns imported especially from Italy, was by now a venerable stalwart of Piccadilly, and relied heavily on its reputation as the ‘old dependable’ among the higher classes. Other restaurants came and went, their stars burning brightly but briefly, but still Babcock’s went on, a superior and a safe pair of hands, with every intention of continuing for another forty years or more. Respectable as it was, it had not the slightest objection to being mentioned in the occasional breathless report as the place in which such-and-such a person had found his wife dining in guilty company with the husband of another, and a scene had been narrowly avoided; or in which two senior Members of the Opposition had hatched a plot to overthrow their leader; or in which one society beauty had snubbed another cruelly and publicly. That was merely good business, and Babcock’s was perfectly happy to be known as a place where one might dine superbly and perhaps catch a whiff of scandal at the same time—although, naturally, it affected to be entirely unaware of the less salubrious facets of its existence, as enumerated with feigned disapproval in some of the lower publications.

  This evening, the crowd was a mixed one. It was a Thursday night, one of the busiest nights for Babcock’s, since on Friday many of the usual clientèle would be going down to the country for the weekend, so many of the regulars were there, along with a number of foreigners, politicians, theatre-goers, business-men and even one or two film people. They had mostly been placed at tables towards the side of the room, where they might discuss confidential business or conduct illicit liaisons with a degree of privacy if so inclined. Not so the party in question, however, who were for the most part a raucous group and wholly accustomed to being looked at; indeed, would have been most offended to be ignored—the ladies in particular. They had been placed at a table in the very centre of the room, happy to act as unpaid entertainment for everybody else, secure in the knowledge that they were quite the most interesting and important people there. Many of the out-of-towners were already darting furtive glances at them, wondering who they might be.

  The first to catch the attention—as always—was the golden-headed Mrs. Blanche Van Leeuwen, dressed all in white (an affectation of hers, as befitted her name). Now forty-two and on her second marriage, her days as a ‘toast’ long behind her, she was nevertheless still a beauty, able to turn heads wherever she went, although these days casual observers were less likely to remember who she was, or recall the triumph of her first season in England following her arrival from Australia. More immediately recognizable was the man to her left: Captain Maurice Atherton, the celebrated explorer. After his last expedition, in which he had nearly lost his life in the jungles of South America, he had announced that he was retiring to write his memoirs, although many said the spirit of adventure had not left him, and that he would not suffer to live a quiet life in England for long. From Captain Atherton, the gaze passed to the fashionably thin Nancy Beasley and then immediately darted about in search of her husband, who was sitting across the table from her. The marriage of Denis and Nancy Beasley was followed with great interest by the general public, since it was considered something of a miracle that they were still married at all, given Denis Beasley’s penchant for the company of young ladies of the chorus, and Nancy’s loud and public rage whenever she caught him at it. Theirs had been a volatile relationship from the start, and most of it, seemingly, had been conducted under the public eye, much to the disgust of Nancy’s father, the late munitions millionaire. After ten stormy years of marriage never blessed by children, those in the know said it was only a matter of time before their names appeared in the divorce courts. On Nancy’s left was Lady Bendish, widow of Sir Henry Bendish, the inventor and philanthropist. Willowy, drooping, and with a mournful, almost tragic air about her, she was listening politely to Denis, who seemed to be telling her an amusing anecdote. To the left of Denis was a small, bird-like woman with bright eyes that darted about constantly. Cynthia Pilkington-Soames was perhaps the least recognizable of the party, but also the most dangerous, since she it was whose column appeared each week in the Clarion, so it was always best not to get on her wrong side, lest one find oneself unflatteringly portrayed in that week’s paper—or worse, not mentioned at all. Under the nom-de-plume of ‘Robin,’ she wrote of gay evening-parties, described the latest outrageous frocks sported by well-known beauties, dropped hints of scandals and affaires, and, with one stroke of her pen, could make or ruin a reputation for a whole season. Every Friday friends and foes alike scoured the page eagerly, to see whether Cynthia had anything to say about them, and felt alternately relieved or slighted depending on the result. That evening, indeed, there had been some little tension between Cynthia and Mrs. Van Leeuwen, who was smarting at the unfounded suggestion, in last week’s column, that she had been ly
ing about her age, and was in fact nearer fifty than forty. Barbed remarks sugar-coated with tinkling laughter had passed back and forth between the two ladies all evening, and it had taken all the diplomatic finesse of the man who sat between them to prevent mutual tensions from descending into open warfare.

  It was odd that, though the table was a round one, nobody could have doubted that this last gentleman mentioned sat at the head of it, and was the most important member of the party. Nicholas Maltravers, or ‘Ticky,’ as he was known to his many close friends, was a man whom any reader of the society pages would recognize immediately, since not a ball, or a party, or a picnic, or a wedding was held without his being invited. When society matrons drew up their guest lists, they would invariably add, ‘Oh, and Ticky, of course.’ If there was an empty chair to be filled at a private dinner, Ticky was the man who would be called upon to fill it. Every page of his diary had something in it—so much so that he might have chosen never to dine at home if he liked. He was invited to everything, and could afford to pick and choose. He was a bon-vivant perched at the very pinnacle of society, although nobody could quite say how he had achieved this position, since he did not seem to be celebrated for anything in particular. He was certainly not known for his looks, being past fifty and of unhealthily sleek and glistening appearance, with hooded eyes and a curved smile that might almost have been described as a knowing smirk. His general habits and dealings with others did not bespeak any particular virtue of character. His wit could best be described as laboured. Nor did he throw parties of his own, but contented himself with attending those of his acquaintances, at which he was sure to be surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers, who shrieked delightedly at his pithy observations and seemed to want nothing more than to be admitted to his inner circle of friends. How he had attained his exalted status was a mystery, therefore, and it could only be supposed that he had managed it by a sort of osmosis, or perhaps even a magical charm. Whatever the case, and whether fair means or foul had been employed, he certainly seemed to relish the attention, and even accept it as his due.

  That evening was no different. He was fêted and loved by his guests, his every comment agreed with, his every witticism seized upon and laughed uproariously at. If the party was the centre of attention at Babcock’s, he was the centre of attention of the party. He dined lavishly, because it was his birthday, and because although the restaurant was an expensive one, nobody would have dreamt of letting him pay. The other gentlemen ate heartily, while the women ate little, or affected to. The caviare and oysters were declared to be the freshest anyone had ever tasted, and were washed down with a most invigorating Chablis, while the turtle soup was neither too hot nor too cold, and went beautifully with the sherry. The salmon and new potatoes were cooked to perfection, and were accompanied by a bottle of Montrachet from one of the oldest vineyards in France. After the roast venison, which all agreed was as tender as spring lamb, and which was served with an intriguing red Claret, there followed ices and petits-fours, complemented by a fine Muscat. Nobody had room for a savoury, and so the order for coffee was issued, and the ladies glanced significantly at one another and then at Ticky.

  ‘Ticky, darling,’ said Nancy Beasley, bringing out something from under the table. ‘It’s time for your present.’

  Ticky assumed a look of combined surprise and modesty as the little gift-wrapped box was presented amid rowdy applause and squeals of excitement.

  ‘I believe you are spoiling me,’ he said. He smiled around at them all, and then carefully unwrapped the gift and brought out a little silver flask, of the sort that fits in a pocket.

  ‘Look, it’s engraved,’ said Cynthia.

  ‘So it is,’ said Ticky. ‘How perfectly delightful.’

  ‘May I see?’ said Blanche Van Leeuwen. She took the flask and exclaimed over it, then passed it to Captain Atherton, who also wanted to look at it. The little silver flask was passed from hand to hand around the table, since although all had contributed, not all had seen it. Ticky took it again and regarded it with polite interest.

  ‘But you must try it, Ticky,’ said Nancy. ‘Don’t let it be one of those presents that’s never used.’

  The knowing smile played around Ticky’s mouth again, and he glanced up slyly at the other two men.

  ‘I believe I shall,’ he said. He summoned the waiter. ‘Do you still have any of the 1820 Cusenier?’ he said.

  The waiter replied in the affirmative.

  ‘Then you’d better bring it,’ said Ticky. ‘We’ll have the whole bottle.’

  The smiles on the faces of the other two men became wooden at the thought first of the cost, and second of such a flagrant waste of good Cognac. The bottle was brought and a large measure decanted into the flask. Ticky looked around.

  ‘How splendid to have such true friends,’ he said, with every appearance of sincerity. ‘A toast. To you, my dears.’

  He raised the flask and took a large mouthful, then another.

  ‘Delicious,’ he said, as the other men eyed the remainder of the Cognac still in the bottle.

  ‘Here, take this and share it with the kitchen staff,’ said Ticky to the maître d’hotel, who was hovering nearby.

  The man was fulsome in his thanks, and the expressions of Denis Beasley and Captain Atherton became more wooden still as the bottle was carried off and placed carefully to one side.

  The dinner was paid for, and there was a great fussing and stirring as everybody stood up, while at the other tables conversations were paused briefly as all the other diners took the opportunity to stare at the party as they left. Then they all moved out into the chilly October night, walking unsteadily (for a great deal of wine had been consumed) and calling out extravagant praises to the maître d’hotel as they went. And then they were gone, and everybody went back to what they had been doing, while the waiters raised their eyebrows at one another.

  Outside, there was some little bustle as the arrangements for returning home were decided. Mrs. Van Leeuwen summoned her motor-car, in which there was room to carry three other people at a pinch, and offered to take the Beasleys and Lady Bendish home, pointedly ignoring Cynthia Pilkington-Soames. Captain Atherton lived nearby on Dover Street and intended to walk home, since he was in need of some air, he said. He cut short their goodbyes and went off with a wave. There was much kissing and exclaiming among the women, and much promising to telephone the next day, then Mrs. Van Leeuwen’s car departed in great state, and somehow Cynthia found herself in a taxi to Belgravia with Ticky Maltravers, who lived in Caroline Terrace.

  ‘Well, that was a most delightful evening,’ said Cynthia. ‘It’s such a pity Herbert had to entertain that dull man from the bank at the last minute and couldn’t come. Thank you, Ticky.’

  ‘It was my pleasure,’ said Ticky, graciously, as though he had paid for it. He was looking rather pink and uncomfortable. ‘I fear I may have over-eaten, however,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, goodness,’ said Cynthia. ‘Perhaps a little digestive when you get home will do the trick.’

  ‘I dare say it will,’ he replied.

  They sat in silence as the cab rounded Hyde Park Corner. Cynthia noticed that Ticky was breathing heavily and that he had begun to perspire freely.

  ‘Dear me, you don’t look well at all,’ she said. ‘What about a nip of brandy now? You have the little flask we gave you.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said.

  He brought out the flask from his pocket and fumbled with the cap, then took a mouthful of the Cognac and coughed.

  The taxi drew up.

  ‘Eaton Terrace,’ the driver announced.

  Cynthia alighted, as did Ticky, with difficulty.

  ‘I think I shall walk the rest of the way,’ he said. ‘I dare say the fresh air will do me good.’

  The taxi departed and Cynthia hurried up the steps to her smart front door and looked for her key. Ticky was standing on the pavement, swaying gently, and she glanced at him in concern.

&nbs
p; ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Ticky?’ she said.

  He opened his mouth to say something, and then took a step forward, as though he wanted to come into the house with her.

  ‘I—’ began Cynthia, and then uttered a little shriek of disgust as Ticky fell heavily against the railings and proceeded to be sick on the steps.

  ‘Well, really!’ she exclaimed, retreating. ‘I should have thought you might have held it in until you got home.’

  But Ticky Maltravers was beyond listening to anything. He slid down the railings to a sitting position, and remained there, fighting for breath and twitching slightly. It had at last occurred to Cynthia that something was very wrong.

  ‘Ticky!’ she said.

  He lifted his head and fixed her with a hollow stare.

  ‘Poisoned!’ he said in a hoarse whisper, and with that, expired.

  Cynthia stood for a second in astonishment, then looked about her as though she suspected someone of playing a tasteless joke on her. She moved gingerly forward, being careful not to tread in the remains of Ticky’s last birthday dinner, and touched his cheek. There was no response. Carefully she lifted an eyelid. One eye stared balefully back at her. There was no doubt at all that he was dead.

  ‘Oh, dear me,’ said Cynthia.

  ELSEWHERE, FREDDY Pilkington-Soames had had a most pleasant evening, having passed it in indulging in youthful high spirits at a fashionable new night-club near Regent Street. At two o’clock he and his friends reluctantly obeyed the order to vacate the premises, and emerged into the London night, preparing to head homewards and sleep the sleep of the just. Freddy was feeling quite delightfully fuzzy in the head, having that evening discovered a new type of cocktail containing champagne, Cointreau, Bourbon whisky, and a secret ingredient which he could not identify, but which was half-sweet and half-sour and rounded the whole thing off deliciously. The more he drank of it, the better it tasted, and since Freddy was a keen and scientific seeker of pleasure—indeed, could wax quite philosophical on the subject at times—he had judged it only right to experiment exhaustively in order to ascertain to his own satisfaction that no greater joy was to be had on that particular evening, at least. The result was that by the time he left the night-club, his brain and his finer motor abilities had mutually agreed to part company for a few hours. No matter, however; the world was a beautiful place, and Freddy felt not the misery of life’s travails as he tottered gently towards Oxford Street in search of a taxi, a beatific smile on his face. Had any malefactor chosen at that moment to jump out in front of him with a dagger or a pistol and demand monies, it is very likely that Freddy would have pressed his last shilling upon the man, given him his hat for good measure, and sent him on his way with a cheery wave, so well-disposed was he towards the world in general.