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

by Clara Benson

  THE SOUND OF singing filtered through into Freddy’s brain, waking him by degrees. It was a low, droning, tuneless voice, which once heard was impossible to ignore. Freddy pulled a pillow over his head, but it was no good—the singing was just outside the door, and whoever it was seemed set fair to continue for the rest of the day, for the hymn, if that was what it was, appeared to have an infinite number of verses. Not a cheerful hymn about bountiful harvests and joyfulness, either; it was one of those paeans composed with the especial purpose of reminding one of one’s inevitable doom. Something about being dragged to the judgment seat and dwelling in torment. As it happened, that was exactly how Freddy felt at that moment, for it seemed as though an entire orchestra had crept into his skull while he was asleep and begun to perform—except that each musician had decided to play a different tune at once. The percussion section was particularly enthusiastic, and he was almost sure that one of the percussionists had mistaken him for a bass drum, and was pounding him over the head rhythmically with a large mallet. There was no sleeping through such a racket, and so at last Freddy gave it up and groped for his watch. It must have stopped, he saw, for the hands pointed to half past ten. Then he remembered that it had been working perfectly well last night at eleven o’clock, and was seized with a terrible foreboding. He put the watch to his ear. It was still ticking. Freddy’s editor, Mr. Bickerstaffe, had been expecting him at the Clarion’s offices at nine, having summoned him for an official dressing-down about his punctuality, and this was hardly a good beginning. He groaned. Just then there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Beg pardon, Mr. Freddy,’ said a voice. It was Mrs. Hanbury, the indefatigable singer of hymns, who let nothing stand in her way when there was dusting to be done—least of all young men who were still in bed long after they ought to be. Freddy sat up.

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs. H,’ he managed, although the sudden movement had caused the brass section to begin improvising a polka. ‘I’m going out now. You can have the room in five minutes.’

  ‘No hurry, sir,’ intoned Mrs. Hanbury, and began singing again.

  Ten minutes later Freddy was out of the house and heading for Sloane Square as fast as his legs would carry him—which was not very fast, since for some reason he was aching all over and felt as though he had been in a fight. His memories of the night before were hazy, not to say almost non-existent, but this was too common an occurrence to worry him, and he expected it would all come back to him sooner or later. There was something about a dispute with Mungo over a taxi, he remembered. He supposed Mungo must have won, since here he was in Belgravia rather than Fleet Street. Damn the fellow! But for him Freddy would not be in his present predicament, and would not be having to run halfway across London still wearing his evening things (indeed, his appearance was causing some amusement among passers-by). After another glance at his watch he decided not to go by the Underground, and instead leapt into a taxi, and by half past eleven finally arrived at the Clarion’s offices washed, dressed, and looking almost presentable. He was greeted without surprise by his colleagues in the news section, who knew his ways.

  ‘Bickerstaffe’s on the warpath,’ one young man informed him. ‘I hope you’ve got a good story, although I don’t think anything less than bubonic plague will get you off the riot act.’

  ‘Where is he?’ said Freddy.

  ‘In his office, with the Belcher. She’s been spouting at him all morning. You’d better watch out. She’s looking for victims. She caught Bill yesterday and forced him to sign a temperance pledge, and he’s been in a foul mood ever since.’

  ‘Bill?’ said Freddy. He glanced across the room, where a freckled messenger boy could be seen licking stamps ferociously, a look of lowering fury upon his face.

  ‘Caught him off guard,’ said his colleague. ‘If she asks me I’m going to say I’ve sprained my wrist and can’t write.’

  Freddy shuddered. Mrs. Marjorie Belcher was the current scourge of the Clarion, having made it her life’s mission to effect the reform of society’s morals by means of the organs of communication. In this she was aided immeasurably by the fact that she was the sister of Sir Aldridge Featherstone, the paper’s owner, which gave her significant influence, and constant access to the news-room. She was the founder and leader of the Young Women’s Abstinence Association, patron of at least two charities which sought to promote the adoption of a more virtuous way of life through healthy exercise, and a fervent believer in getting ten hours’ sleep a night. She was almost fanatical in her enthusiasms, and while it ought to have been easy enough to avoid hearing about them merely by avoiding her, in reality she was so highly connected that it was almost impossible to attend any society party or reception without finding her also in attendance, or being button-holed by her at least once, for she was ever hopeful of persuading her acquaintances at the higher end of society to join one of her organizations. She had been haunting the news-room of late, and there were rumours among the staff that her brother, Sir Aldridge Featherstone himself, had been listening to her strictures, and was preparing to forbid the publication of the more scurrilous stories in which the Clarion tended to specialize. There was much dismay at the thought, for if the paper were to take a moral tone, then everybody knew it would quickly lose ground to its deadly rival, the Herald, and that would be the end of everything.

  ‘Oh—here they come,’ said the young man. ‘Better look busy!’

  A door at the end of the news-room opened as he spoke, and out came Mr. Bickerstaffe, accompanied by a large and officious-looking woman of middle age and respectable attire. Freddy slid quietly into his seat and affected to be busy with his notebook. The two moved slowly through the room, deep in conversation. Mr. Bickerstaffe was wearing his most ingratiating smile. As they approached, the woman could be heard saying:

  ‘—and of course, it’s no good at all if we cannot set an example ourselves. How are we to right the morals of the working classes if we cannot look to our own behaviour and pronounce it irreproachable? It is our duty, Mr. Bickerstaffe, to conduct ourselves at all times as though we were under constant observation—not only by our inferiors, but also by a Higher Power, one who will judge us when the final day comes, and find us all wanting—some of us more than others.’

  This last was pronounced in a portentous tone.

  ‘Oh, quite, Mrs. Belcher,’ said Mr. Bickerstaffe.

  They had now reached Freddy’s desk. Freddy arranged some papers busily, and seemed to be hunting about for a pencil. Mr. Bickerstaffe caught sight of him and drew himself up.

  ‘You,’ he began, pointing a finger at Freddy.

  But he was not allowed to continue, for Mrs. Belcher had not yet finished. She was looking about her at the reporters, who were all avoiding her eye and pretending to work.

  ‘Perhaps some of your personnel might be persuaded to join us, in fact,’ she said. ‘If we can show the masses that even the fourth estate is working to support us, then they might be more likely to listen to what we have to say. Young man,’ she said, addressing Freddy as he rose politely. ‘You will not refuse, I am sure. I have no doubt that Mr. Bickerstaffe has told you of our cause—indeed, there is no more enthusiastic proponent of it than himself. For far too long our streets have been a hot-bed of criminality, vice, alcohol and sin. Our object is to cleanse the country of these diseases, before they take hold and society becomes wholly incurable.’

  ‘A fine aim, certainly,’ said Freddy, who was by no means recovered from the effects of at least one of the entries on her list, and was holding the edge of his desk to prevent himself from swaying. Mrs. Belcher looked at him more closely.

  ‘What is your name? We have met before, have we not?’ she said.

  ‘Pilkington-Soames, madam,’ he replied. ‘I believe you know my mother.’

  He was beginning to feel rather sick, and wanted nothing more than to go home and lie down again.

  ‘Ah, yes!’ exclaimed Mrs. Belcher. ‘A very good woman, and wholly sympatheti
c to the cause. She was only too keen to come to my charity reception this afternoon. I shall look forward to seeing her at all our temperance meetings in future.’

  At the mention of his mother, Freddy frowned as a flash of memory returned to him. He was almost sure she had been at the Eaton Terrace house last night, but presumably she had left before him that morning. Had there been a row of some sort? Mrs. Belcher had now moved on to another desk and was haranguing an elderly man for smoking. Mr. Bickerstaffe took advantage of her distraction to advance upon Freddy with a menacing look. Freddy braced himself for the worst, but before Mr. Bickerstaffe could begin he was interrupted by a lackey with an important message. He glanced at the paper and pursed his lips, then looked up at Freddy.

  ‘One of your lot, I think,’ he said.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ said Freddy.

  ‘A dead body in Belgravia. Caroline Terrace. Maltravers, the name is. Know him? He’s been found dead outside his next-door neighbour’s house, and the police are hinting at foul play.’

  At that there was a loud crash, as the memories returned all at once and Freddy sat down suddenly, accidentally sweeping the contents of his desk onto the floor as he did so.

  ‘His neighbour’s house? Number 25? Oh, good Lord,’ he said.

  There was some little bustle as several people started forward to pick up the mess.

  ‘Are you quite all right, young man?’ said Mrs. Belcher, alerted by the noise. ‘You look a little unwell, I must say.’

  Freddy was staring straight ahead, white in the face, as an image of himself, wheeling the dead body of Ticky Maltravers from his mother’s house to Caroline Terrace in a child’s toy wagon, danced through his mind in all its magnificence and glory. He put his head in his hands and groaned.

  ‘I need a drink,’ he said.

  ‘Well, really!’ said Mrs. Belcher, taken aback.

  ‘You don’t look well, old chap,’ said the young man at the next desk.

  ‘I take it you knew him,’ said Mr. Bickerstaffe.

  Freddy pulled himself together with some effort.

  ‘No—at least, not well,’ he said. ‘He was a friend of my mother’s.’

  ‘Ah, yes, your mother,’ said Mr. Bickerstaffe. ‘Where is she this morning, by the way? She hasn’t sent in her copy yet and we need it by three for the six o’clock edition.’

  ‘I expect she’s hovering excitedly around Scotland Yard, trying to get a glimpse of the corpse,’ said the young man. ‘Sorry, Freddy,’ he said hurriedly, as Freddy glared at him. ‘Just my little joke.’

  ‘You said the police are talking about foul play,’ said Freddy to Mr. Bickerstaffe. ‘Does that mean they suspect murder?’

  ‘Can’t say from this,’ said Mr. Bickerstaffe, looking at the message. ‘It just says here there are some suspicious circumstances. Jolliffe,’ he said to the young man, ‘you go along there and find out what’s going on.’

  ‘Do you mind if I go instead, sir?’ said Freddy. ‘After all, I did know him. A little, anyway,’ he added hastily.

  Mr. Bickerstaffe stared at him doubtfully.

  ‘But I’m supposed to be having a word with you,’ he said.

  ‘Excuse me, am I to understand that Mr. Pilkington-Soames was a friend of this unfortunate person?’ said Mrs. Belcher. ‘Why, there’s no wonder he looks so unwell. It must be a terrible shock. And to offer to write the story, too, at such a moment! That’s very spirited of you, young man. Mr. Bickerstaffe, the country needs more young people such as this. Too often these days we see youth so easily overcome by the slightest blow, but Mr. Pilkington-Soames here is a perfect demonstration of what a stout heart can do.’

  ‘Thank you, madam,’ said Freddy bravely. ‘I hope I understand my duty.’

  Jolliffe at the next desk let out a snigger, which he covered with a cough.

  ‘You do look very pale, however,’ went on Mrs. Belcher. ‘Perhaps you ought to go home and recover.’

  ‘No, there’s no need for that,’ said Freddy. ‘But I should like to go and cover the story, if you don’t mind, sir. After all, I did know him a little, and I know some of his pals very well. I rather think I can make something of it, if you’ll let me.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said Mr. Bickerstaffe grudgingly. ‘But don’t think you’re off the hook just yet. Well, what are you waiting for? Get along.’

  Freddy needed no further encouragement. He wished Mrs. Belcher a respectful good morning and headed for the door. He needed to find out what the police knew, and then speak to his mother.

  INSPECTOR ENTWISTLE STOOD outside the front door of number 24, Caroline Terrace, in close conference with his sergeant, Bird, and another man carrying a little black case that announced him immediately as a doctor. The inspector was a man whom nobody could have picked out in a crowd, and that was the way he liked it. For twenty years he had dedicated himself to his job almost to the exclusion of all else, and he regretted it not for a moment. His calling was the law, and the law he meant to uphold, come what may. Sergeant Bird, more affable and less unbending, had nonetheless worked with his superior for some years now, and knew how to manage him, and the two men rubbed along fairly well for the most part. They now listened earnestly to what the doctor had to tell them about the strange events of that morning.

  Nicholas Maltravers had been discovered outside the house of his next-door neighbour at number 25, Caroline Terrace at eight o’clock, when the maid had come out to scrub the step. The young woman had screamed loudly at the unexpected sight of a dead man in full evening-dress propped up against her nice, clean railings, and the noise had brought out her elderly mistress, who was not a little displeased at having her breakfast interrupted by such a row. Miss Fosdyke was made of sterner stuff than her maid; she recognized Ticky immediately and sent the girl round to fetch Weaver, Ticky’s manservant. Weaver went pale at the sight, wrung his hands and summoned a doctor, and together they carried Ticky into his own house and laid him as best they could on his bed. The doctor had attended Ticky many times and knew him well, and his suspicions were very soon aroused by one or two little circumstances that caused him to frown. He questioned Weaver closely about where his master had been last night, and whether he had been in any way unwell recently, and then announced that he could not think of issuing a death certificate until the police had been called. A young constable was sent along, but swiftly saw that it was a serious matter and that more help would be needed. He was now engaged in keeping an eye on the small crowd of people who had gathered outside number 24 to watch proceedings, while Entwistle and Bird heard what the doctor had to say.

  ‘So you see what I mean about the traces,’ Dr. Spillman was saying. ‘The unnatural position of the body first gave me pause, since it was propped up most awkwardly against the railings. His lower parts were not quite touching the ground, while his right foot had been jammed against the doorstep as though to hold him in place. That puzzled me slightly, but my suspicions were not fully confirmed until after we’d moved him and carried him up to bed. That’s when I noticed traces of vomit around his mouth, although there was no mess where he was found. Then when I examined the rest of him I saw that the heels of his shoes were worn and scraped, and that the hems on his trousers were also a little frayed and dirty, just as though he’d been dragged.’

  ‘You think someone put him there, then?’ said Entwistle.

  ‘Yes. At first glance it looked as though he had been taken ill, and had collapsed against the railings and slid down into a sitting position—and I expect that is what we were meant to think. But when I examined him at just before nine this morning, it was clear that rigor was well advanced, and he had obviously been dead some time—perhaps as much as ten or twelve hours. However, Miss Fosdyke’s maid says that she just glanced out into the street at half past eleven last night when she locked up, and he was not there then. It’s not certain, of course, but I think someone put him here when he had already begun to stiffen, and arranged him to look as if he h
ad died outside the house. I do beg your pardon, inspector—had I been thinking more clearly I should, of course, have insisted on his being left where he was found, but my mind was on other things this morning, and I had no particular reason to suspect foul play initially. I’m afraid you’ll just have to take my word for it about his original position.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Entwistle. ‘And you’re sure there was no heart trouble?’

  ‘None at all. I’d attended him for years, and his heart was as sound as a bell. He had one or two other conditions, but none that would cause him to collapse suddenly and die in the street. I can’t say what killed him, but it certainly bears further investigation, don’t you think?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Entwistle non-committally.

  The doctor prepared to leave.

  ‘I’d like to stay and speak to the police surgeon when he arrives, but I’m already late for several appointments,’ he said. ‘Here’s my card, anyway. I shall be back in my office by three if he wants to speak to me.’

  And with a brisk nod, he hurried off. Inspector Entwistle was already looking about him.

  ‘So, if this Maltravers was brought here, where was he brought from?’ he said. ‘And how was he killed?’

  ‘You think it was murder, then, sir?’ said Sergeant Bird.

  ‘Can’t say until Ingleby gets here and takes a look at him,’ said Entwistle. ‘But in the meantime there’s no harm in scouting about a bit.’ He went to peer at the pavement outside number 25. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘See here. Yes; unmistakable traces of black shoe-polish and leather, I should say. He was certainly dragged. But the trace only starts here in the middle of the street. He wasn’t dragged all the way, then.’

  ‘What if he collapsed here in the street, and someone moved him?’ suggested Bird.

  ‘Why would they do that and not call for help?’

  ‘Perhaps they thought he was drunk.’

  ‘Possible, I suppose. Although this doctor chappie seems to think he was already stiff when he was propped up. You couldn’t drag a dead body and not notice he was dead.’