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

by Clara Benson

  ‘True enough,’ conceded the sergeant. ‘But why did they put him outside number 25 when he lives at number 24? Was it deliberate?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Entwistle. He was still looking about him thoughtfully.

  ‘Perhaps someone wanted to play a nasty joke on Miss Fosdyke,’ said Bird.

  ‘There must be some reason for it,’ said Entwistle. ‘Unless whoever it was dumped him there by mistake. We’ll need to speak to this manservant—what’s his name?—Weaver, and find out what his gentleman was doing last night. He’s in the house, yes?’

  ‘Prostrate with grief,’ said the sergeant resignedly. ‘Couldn’t get a word out of him. I said we’d come back.’

  ‘Well, he’d better not suffer too long. We haven’t time for fits of the vapours. Hallo, who’s this? Stay back, sir. Police.’

  He was addressing a slightly dishevelled-looking young man, who had just pushed through the little crowd and past the protesting police constable, and who now paused to look about him with interest, as though he had all the time in the world.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ said Sergeant Bird. Freddy bestowed an ingratiating smile upon the two policemen.

  ‘Sorry, I was just stopping to get a whiff of the atmosphere, and all that, what? The readers like a bit of local colour with their corpses. Press,’ he explained. ‘Pilkington-Soames, here on behalf of the Clarion. Here’s my card. I’m afraid it’s a little battered and wrinkled around the edges, from the time I went to speak to Mr. Bartholomew—you know, the trade union leader—during the dock-workers’ strike, and his Doberman Pinscher took a liking to it and dropped it into the Regent’s Canal. Luckily a passing barge-man fished it out for me, but it’s never been the same since. I prefer smaller dogs, myself. There’s something not quite natural about a dog that’s so tall it can look one straight in the eye, don’t you think?’

  ‘The Clarion?’ said Inspector Entwistle, fastening upon the one salient detail of this speech. ‘We’ve got nothing for you at present. Come to the Yard later, if you must, but don’t bother us now. Ah, here’s Ingleby,’ he said, as the little police surgeon arrived. ‘I want a word with him.’

  He hurried off, and Sergeant Bird was left to deal with the press.

  ‘Friendly chap, isn’t he?’ said Freddy.

  ‘He hasn’t got time for trivialities,’ said Bird, assessing the young man with a practised eye.

  ‘I might take exception to being called a triviality,’ said Freddy. ‘Luckily for you, I have an extraordinarily thick skin, so I’ll forgive you on this occasion.’

  ‘Good of you,’ said the sergeant. ‘But he’s right, you know. There’s nothing doing here at the moment. You’d be better off waiting until we’ve finished.’

  ‘Are you familiar with the word “deadline?”’ said Freddy.

  ‘Something to do with fishing, isn’t it?’ said Bird.

  ‘Not exactly. It’s a line beyond which stands a door marked “The Boot.” Which is why I fully intend to stand here and talk at you until you give me something I can put in the paper. Come now,’ he went on, in his most persuasive manner. ‘You wouldn’t want to see me, my wife and my five children out on the street by the end of the week, purely because I couldn’t get four hundred words to my editor in time for the six o’clock edition, now, would you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t if I believed a word of it, sir,’ said Bird comfortably. ‘But you heard what Inspector Entwistle said. And anyway, there’s nothing to tell. A gentleman was found dead outside his next-door neighbour’s house, and we don’t yet know how it happened.’

  ‘His next-door neighbour’s house, eh? That’s interesting. Any idea how he got there? Had he gone there for tea, or something?’

  ‘No. He was found there early this morning, having somehow arrived there during the night.’

  ‘But there must be something you’re not telling me, sergeant,’ said Freddy. ‘I mean to say, you wouldn’t be here now if there weren’t something suspicious about his death. What is it? A gunshot wound to the temple? A dagger to the heart? A mysterious note, smelling faintly of perfume, clutched in the dead man’s hand?’

  ‘Nothing so exciting as that, I’m afraid,’ said Bird, amused despite himself. ‘The only mystery at present is how he came to be where he was, as it rather looks as if someone put him there—at least, that’s what his doctor says. But we don’t know who, and we don’t know how.’

  ‘No witnesses, I suppose?’ said Freddy, as casually as possible.

  ‘Not so far. This is a quiet street and it’s unlikely anybody was out and about in the middle of the night. And as for the dead man, he certainly wasn’t shot or stabbed, but we won’t know how he did die until there has been a post-mortem examination. And now that’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘Splendid. And in return I shall tell you that I knew the dead man—slightly, at any rate.’

  ‘Did you, indeed?’ said Bird with sudden interest.

  ‘Yes, I thought that might get you. As a matter of fact, I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him yourself—or are you one of these types who professes not to read the society pages?’

  ‘I may have perused them on occasion,’ admitted Bird cautiously.

  ‘Then you must have heard of Ticky Maltravers, surely?’

  ‘The name does sound familiar. Is this the same gentleman?’

  ‘The very same. Now, listen; I’m in a spot of trouble with my editor, and he’s put me on to this story, and if I can steal a march on the competition—the Herald in particular—then I’ll be back in his good books. What do you say to a little exchange of information? You tell me what you know—or at least, as much as you can say without ruining your case—and I’ll tell you anything I find out. A sort of quid pro quo, what?’

  ‘I can’t promise anything,’ said Bird. ‘The inspector’s not too keen on that kind of thing.’

  ‘Doesn’t trust the press, eh?’ said Freddy. ‘Very wise, as a general rule. I, however, am a man of unimpeachable morals and ironclad honour, who would never dream of publishing a story without your say-so.’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ said Bird. ‘As I said, we can’t be certain there’s any mystery at all, yet. I’ve told you all I know, and if you can get four hundred words out of that then you’re a better man than I am.’

  ‘Oh, I shall pad it out somehow,’ said Freddy, with a wave of the hand. ‘It’s rather a gift of mine. I once spent six hundred words describing the hat-ribbons of an abandoned wife who killed her children and then herself, and everyone said it was one of the most moving and tragic things I’d ever written. So, let’s take that as agreed, shall we? I shall go off and write my little piece, then you shall read it and see that I am exactly what I purport to be, and can be relied upon not to transform a dull news story into a work of vulgar fiction—although you must allow for a little poetic licence, naturally—and then we shall become friends and entrust one another with such little tidbits of useful information that might happen to come our way.’

  ‘I make no promises,’ said Sergeant Bird again. ‘Now, you’re standing where you ought not to, so you’d better go and write your story. No hat-ribbons here, I’m afraid.’

  He then went off to speak to the constable, leaving Freddy to think about what he had learnt. Despite his apparent insouciance, he was in fact deeply relieved that the police had not arrested him on the spot as soon as he had arrived. They had evidently not found any witnesses to the disposal of Ticky’s body yet, and Freddy trusted fervently that they never would, and that by ingratiating himself with the police he would throw them off the scent. The inspector did not look like much of a prospect, but this sergeant seemed a friendly enough sort, and would perhaps let him know what was going on with the investigation. Ever since the memory of last night had come back to him, Freddy had been kicking himself at his own stupidity, and was at present highly displeased with his mother for having taken advantage of him in his weakened state, for he had no desire to run
afoul of the law, and was quite certain he would never have agreed to what she had asked of him had he been fully compos mentis at the time. But was Cynthia right when she said Ticky had been poisoned? How did she know? Or was she being over-dramatic, as usual? If she was right, then the police were bound to find it out, and then they would start asking awkward questions about where everybody had been last night. Of course, Ticky’s death was nothing to do with Freddy, but he suspected the police would not look too kindly upon his half-unwitting interference in the affair.

  The thing to do now was to find his mother, and quickly. But where was she? Just then, Freddy remembered his conversation with Marjorie Belcher, who had mentioned that Cynthia was supposed to be attending her charity reception at Sir Aldridge Featherstone’s house that afternoon. He would have to run her to earth there. At any rate, he seemed safe from arrest for the moment. Two men were now emerging from number 24, bearing a covered figure on a stretcher. The little crowd which had gathered in the street now became very excited, and surged forward in an attempt to get a better view, as Sergeant Bird and the ineffectual police constable tried to hold them back. Freddy took the opportunity to melt away. The reception was at three, he seemed to remember. He would have some lunch to restore his faculties, then he would go and find his mother and give her a piece of his mind.

  AT TWELVE O’CLOCK that same day, Nancy Beasley was lying in bed at her house in Charles Street, a cold compress on her forehead, dictating a letter to her secretary, an attractive and competent young woman of twenty-five.

  ‘Let’s see,’ she said. ‘Shall I start “Dear Lady Featherstone?” Or shall I risk “Constance?” It’s so difficult to know what to do in these circumstances. Obviously one doesn’t want to offend, but if I give her the full title I’ve as good as admitted that I know she’s snubbing me. What do you think, Ann?’

  Ann Chadwick thought for a moment.

  ‘It is difficult,’ she conceded. ‘And I’m not sure I know the answer, since I haven’t seen the two of you together lately. How was she the last time you saw her?’

  ‘Oh, the same as before—quite cut me dead when she saw me. And in public, too. Only think of the humiliation! It’s too bad of her. And it’s not as though I did it on purpose. How was I to know she was throwing her beastly party on the same day as mine? Just a tiny little faux pas and she’s been holding a grudge against me for months now. And after all I put myself through to get in with her in the first place—all those charitable committees I’ve inveigled myself onto, and all the things I’ve had to hide from Marjorie Belcher, who simply can’t imagine that a person might want to have a little fun once in a while. I don’t suppose for one second that Constance is as virtuous as she makes herself out to be, but with a sister-in-law like Mrs. Belcher she can pretend as much as she likes to be holier than thou, and nobody doubts it for a second. I’ll bet no-one asked her a lot of awkward questions about her views on drink before they let her on the board of trustees. Hateful woman! I can’t bear people who won’t forgive and forget.’

  ‘If you can’t bear Lady Featherstone, then surely it doesn’t matter what you call her,’ said Ann. ‘And there must be other charities who would be glad of your help?’

  ‘Silly girl, I don’t give a fig about the charities,’ said Nancy pettishly. ‘It’s the look of the thing that’s important. Of course I must pretend to be her friend. Why, you know perfectly well that she throws the most important parties. One simply has to be seen at them, or one might as well retire to the wilds of Scotland and take up fishing. The invitations will be going out to her Christmas ball soon, and everyone who’s anyone will be there, so I can’t possibly let her freeze me out, as I’d simply die if she didn’t invite me, and Cynthia would never let me hear the last of it. Think of everyone gloating over it if she put it in the Clarion! I should never be able to hold my head up in public again.’

  ‘In that case, I think the best choice would be the formal title.’

  ‘You think I ought to grovel?’ said Nancy, wrinkling her nose.

  ‘Perhaps it might be safest. Oh, but it’s Mrs. Belcher’s reception this afternoon,’ said Ann, as a thought struck her. ‘Lady Featherstone will be there, won’t she? Perhaps you might leave the letter for now, and see whether you can’t try and thaw things a little in person first.’

  ‘Now there’s an idea,’ said Nancy. ‘Do you know, I believe you’re right. I shall go to the reception and be charming and delightful to Mrs. Belcher, and then Constance will have no choice but to acknowledge me, because she’s the one who’ll look bad if she doesn’t. She might be cool, but she certainly can’t ignore me, and that will be a start, at any rate. You’ll back me up, won’t you, Ann? Oh, Denis, darling,’ she said to her husband, who entered the room then, ‘I’ve just had the cleverest idea. I’m going to work on Constance Featherstone at the reception this afternoon before I reply to that frosty letter of hers about the opera recital. If I suck up to Marjorie Belcher and pretend to be dreadfully enthusiastic about her silly temperance association, Constance won’t be able to snub me, or she’ll lose face in front of everyone. What do you think?’

  Denis Beasley and Ann Chadwick exchanged glances of understanding, unseen by Nancy on the bed.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re so bothered about that woman,’ he said. ‘She’s not worth half the attention you give her. Hallo, Ann. Did you and Larry have a nice time last night?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Ann.

  ‘They had a better time of it than we did, I imagine,’ said Nancy. ‘They went to the theatre to see that new play we liked the look of, while we were all suffering through a positively interminable evening with Ticky. You must promise me never again, darling.’

  ‘It wasn’t my idea,’ said Denis. ‘I can’t bear the fellow. He practically drips oil.’

  ‘Wasn’t it a nice evening?’ said Ann.

  ‘Far too loud for my taste,’ said Nancy. ‘I prefer a smaller, quieter party. Still, at least he seemed to like the flask.’

  ‘Oh, I’m glad,’ said Ann. ‘I almost decided on the pocket-watch, but then I remembered that he prefers a wrist-watch.’

  ‘I never know what to buy people,’ said Nancy. ‘I’m lucky I have you for all that sort of thing. Just plump this pillow up for me, would you darling?’

  Ann did as she was told, and Nancy sighed.

  ‘I did think Captain Atherton might have had more to say for himself. He must have some thrilling tales to tell about life in the jungle, but he didn’t seem inclined to indulge us last night. And Sarah Bendish was there, looking sick as usual. I don’t know what she’s got to complain about—she seems to have a perfectly comfortable life, but she insists on moping about with a face like melting wax. I’m sorry, darling,’ she said to Ann. ‘I know you’re marrying into the family, and I’m sure she’s a perfectly delightful woman, but I only wish she’d cheer up a little.’

  ‘Now, Nancy,’ began Denis, but got no further before the telephone-bell rang. Ann Chadwick rose to answer the instrument, which stood on a little table by the bed.

  ‘It’s Mrs. Pilkington-Soames,’ she said to Nancy, who removed her cold compress and took the receiver.

  ‘Cynthia, darling,’ she said. ‘Ghastly night, wasn’t it?’

  She listened to the excitable voice at the other end of the line, and her eyes grew round.

  ‘What?’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you sure? But how?’ She was silent as the voice chattered on. ‘Oh, I see. You weren’t there? Then who told you? Yes, yes, of course. Well, how simply extraordinary! I’ll tell Denis immediately. Yes, I imagine you are in a hurry. You’ll be there this afternoon, won’t you? Good; you shall tell me more about it then. Goodbye.’

  She replaced the receiver and looked at Denis and Ann, who were regarding her with the greatest of curiosity.

  ‘Ticky’s dead!’ she said, and then, as they exclaimed, went on, ‘Cynthia says he collapsed outside his house last night. She’s just heard it from the people at the p
aper.’

  ‘Heart attack?’ suggested Denis.

  ‘They don’t know, but there seems to be some suggestion that he might not have died of natural causes. The police have been called, and there’s going to be a post-mortem examination.’

  ‘Goodness!’ said Ann. ‘Does that mean they’ll want to come and ask you questions?’

  ‘I dare say,’ said Nancy. ‘What a bore. Marjorie Belcher won’t be any too pleased at having anyone from her charities mixed up in a police investigation.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Ann. ‘It sounds rather unpleasant.’

  They all looked at one another.

  ‘Still, he’s dead,’ said Denis at last, and he did not look particularly unhappy.

  ‘I wonder whether anyone else knows,’ said Nancy, picking up the telephone-receiver again.

  ‘If they don’t now, they soon will,’ Denis said quietly to Ann, who smiled.

  CAPTAIN MAURICE ATHERTON put down the telephone and stared into space for a long moment. It was impossible to read the expression on his lean, tanned face, but it was obvious that he was thinking hard. At length, he stretched his hand out and rang a little bell, which was soon answered by a manservant.

  ‘Mahomet,’ he said. ‘I’ve just heard the most extraordinary piece of news.’

  The manservant waited politely.

  ‘Maltravers is dead.’

  ‘Is that so, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Collapsed outside his house last night.’

  He paused. Mahomet waited, knowing his master well.

  ‘I won’t say it’s not a relief,’ went on Atherton. ‘The man was a foul pestilence, right enough. But they don’t know how he died, and it looks as though the police have been called. They’ll start poking around, no doubt.’

  ‘Do you suppose they will find anything, sir?’ said Mahomet.

  ‘That’s the question, isn’t it? At least while he was alive there was no danger of—’