Yarnton shook his head, continuing to study them with a cynical eye.
‘Lord Velmond is quite right,’ put in Dr Wetherby in a pedantic tone. ‘If this is intended to be amusing, you will need to explain further before we can appreciate the humour of it.’
‘Alas, there are reasons why I cannot do so, my dear doctor. Yet I believe the gentleman in question is among us this evening, perhaps not so very far away?’
‘Thompson, Thompson,’ — Lady Quainton repeated the name, her eyes alert. ‘I can think of no one belonging to our circle with that name, although doubtless it’s common enough.’
‘Where did you hear it, and in what circumstances?’ demanded Cleveland, suddenly.
‘Oh, dear me, to reveal that would spoil everything,’ replied Yarnton, plaintively. ‘But I see you cannot, or will not, help me, so I’ll take my leave of you for the present. Your servant, ladies — gentlemen.’
‘And good riddance,’ said Velmond, sotto voce, as he moved towards his wife. ‘Lucy, are you feeling the heat? You look a trifle unwell.’
‘Oh, no, no, I’m perfectly all right,’ she replied hurriedly. ‘That is — perhaps I will just go to the ladies’ retiring-room and bathe my face. It is rather hot in here.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ offered Lady Quainton.
‘No, pray don’t trouble, ma’am, I’ll only be gone a moment.’
She walked quickly away. She was followed presently by Lady Kinver, and soon afterwards the group dispersed, drifting to join other acquaintances in the room. Only Lady Quainton remained, seated on a gilt chair which combined elegance with discomfort, brooding over what had just passed.
Her reverie was interrupted by the sudden reappearance of Mr Yarnton, who bent confidentially over her chair.
‘You look pensive, dear lady, and who can wonder at it. One’s acquaintances are so amusing, are they not? They foolishly suppose that their little foibles and follies go unnoticed, but I fancy you are one of the few who, like myself, make it your business to observe your fellow creatures.’
‘If I do, sir,’ retorted Lady Quainton tartly, ‘I hope it is with compassion!’
He spread his hands. ‘But of course! One had only to see the kindly way in which you were drawing out dear Lady Velmond earlier on to realize how pure were your motives. And there must be a vast deal of interest to discover in that quarter. For instance, I saw the young bride myself the other day, alighting from a hackney carriage — a hackney, mark you! — in a most unfashionable spot, a street near Petticoat Lane. And heavily veiled, at that, though I did not fail to recognize her. One wonders —’
He was seized suddenly in a remorseless grip and twisted round. Lord Velmond’s furious countenance thrust itself at him.
‘Did I hear the name of my wife on your scurrilous tongue?’
Yarnton passed his tongue over his dry lips but did his best to keep calm.
‘You mistake, my lord,’ he stuttered. ‘A private conversation with Lady Quainton… You have no right —’
Velmond shook him as a terrier shakes a rat.
‘No right! Who has a better right, you — you —’
His voice had risen, and those standing nearby turned to stare in shocked surprise. Lucy had just re-entered the room and now came running forward. She took Velmond’s arm.
‘George — no, please! Don’t, I beg you, make a scene — pray come away!’
He shook her off impatiently; but others were now hurrying to the spot, among them Dr Wetherby and Bradfield. The doctor, a well-built man, pulled Velmond off his victim and firmly restrained him from making a further attack.
‘Don’t be a damned fool, my lord,’ he said in a quiet voice that carried authority. ‘Can’t make a scene in Lady Windlesham’s drawing-room. Not a gentlemanly thing to do. Besides, think of your wife; you won’t wish to involve her in a scandal.’
Cleveland, who had also come quickly forward, signed to Yarnton to make himself scarce, a hint which the other was not slow in taking. His instincts of self-preservation were well-developed. Once he had gone, Velmond relaxed and freed himself from the doctor’s grasp.
‘Suppose you’re right,’ he admitted grudgingly, ‘but I tell you, Wetherby, I’d dearly love to give that scoundrel a sound thrashing, damn me if I wouldn’t!’
‘No doubt, no doubt,’ agreed Dr Wetherby in a soothing tone. ‘But anything of the kind is against your best interests, as I know you’ll see once you calm down.’
Velmond nodded and allowed himself to be persuaded to accompany Bradfield into the refreshment-room for a glass of wine, while Lucy remained with Lady Quainton.
The incident had been observed only by those in the immediate vicinity, and by the time Velmond returned to the drawing room, all seemed as before except for the absence of Mr Yarnton.
Velmond no longer wished to remain at the soirée, however. Having ascertained that Lucy was of the same mind, he went to retrieve his outdoor things from the gentlemen’s cloakroom. She lingered for a parting word with Lady Quainton.
She was about to move away when her husband came rushing back into the room, a distraught look on his face which caused those standing near the exit to break off their talk and stare at him.
‘Wetherby — for God’s sake where’s Wetherby?’ he cried in urgent tones. ‘Ah, there you are!’
He pounced upon the doctor, who was among those near the door by which he had just entered, and seized his arm.
‘Quickly — no time to lose! Yarnton — in the cloakroom, some kind of seizure, I think — for God’s sake, hurry, man!’
The doctor needed no second bidding but hastened away at once, waving back imperiously those who would have followed him. Only Velmond was permitted to accompany him the few steps along the passage to the small ante-room which had been placed at the disposal of the gentlemen guests.
Word of some crisis quickly circulated among the company, and they all gathered round the door of the drawing-room, talking in low tones. Lady Windlesham was leaning on Lady Quainton’s arm, looking extremely distressed.
Presently the doctor came slowly back into the room, his face grave. At his heels was Velmond, even more shaken than before.
‘What is it?’ cried Lady Windlesham, in an unnaturally high, cracked voice. ‘Mr Yarnton — pray tell us — how is he?’
Dr Wetherby signalled to a curious, hovering footman to bring forward a chair for his mistress. She sank into it thankfully, her eyes fixed painfully on the doctor’s face.
‘I regret to inform you, ma’am,’ he said quietly, ‘that Mr Yarnton is dead. There is nothing I can do for him.’
A gasp of horror ran round the guests.
‘Some kind of seizure, was it?’ asked one of the men. ‘Velmond said —’
Dr Wetherby cut him short. ‘No. I fear the situation’s more serious than that. You must all prepare yourselves for a shock; the ladies had best be seated.’
He waited some minutes while this instruction was obeyed.
‘Mr Yarnton’s death was not due to sudden illness,’ he resumed. ‘I found him strangled with his own cravat — pressure on the carotid artery. Impossible to be self-inflicted. This is murder, Lady Windlesham. It is our painful duty to inform Bow Street.’
CHAPTER 2
Law enforcement in London had for more than sixty years been centred on a building in Bow Street. It was the house where the novelist Henry Fielding had lived after being appointed chief magistrate for Westminster in 1749. Here he revolutionized the ineffectual policing of the metropolis by setting up a small force of specialist thief-takers, or Runners as they soon came to be called, and persuading the Government to pay a modest annual fee to the men for their services.
After his death, his half-brother Sir John Fielding, the Blind Beak, expanded the service. He founded a highway foot patrol and set up a criminal record office, eventually producing a gazette which circulated particulars of wanted criminals.
So successful was the Bow Street system in
combating crime that in 1792, the Government reluctantly passed a Bill appointing seven other similar police offices in the metropolis. This move was followed later by the founding of the River Police and later still by a mounted patrol covering the roads out of London after dark. The Bow Street office still retained its former importance, however, and by an unwritten law only Bow Street Runners were allowed to be sent into the country to pursue investigations.
Sir Nathaniel Conant, chief magistrate at Bow Street, was not at all happy. It was not that he was unaccustomed to dealing with cases of murder. In the tough areas near the river where drunken sailors, lightermen and prostitutes abounded, violent quarrels frequently arose which ended in a knifing. The same was true of the rookeries of crime which lay close to the City and even around Westminster Abbey; robbery with violence was rife, and sometimes the violence ended in murder.
But murder, in Sir Nathaniel’s view, was a crime of the lower orders. There had been occasions in the past, of course, before duelling fell out of favour, when a gentleman would fatally wound his opponent and be obliged either to flee the country or else stand trial for murder. That was quite another matter from the strangling of a guest at a ton party in the West End of London.
And it really did look as if the deed must have been done by a member of the Quality.
Two of his most reliable Runners had been assisting him on the case. They had quickly established that there was no way in which an intruder could have gained access to the house unseen and that it must therefore be an inside crime. There was no evidence of robbery, as the dead man was still in possession of his money and valuables. They had questioned the servants rigorously but failed to find anything suspicious in their depositions. Moreover, all of them had been in Lady Windlesham’s employment for several years and had respectable backgrounds.
Reluctantly Sir Nathaniel decided that the guests must be questioned.
This he undertook personally, aided by one of his assistant magistrates, both proceeding with the utmost tact and delicacy. It was not a pleasant business. The Quality were not accustomed to being required to give an account of their actions, and most of them resented it deeply. Several announced their intention of registering a complaint with the Home Secretary.
When asked about their relations with the dead man, one and all shrugged off the question. They doubted if he had possessed any close friends; certainly no one present admitted to being on such terms with him. He was variously described as amusing, a wag, a bit of a scandalmonger and ‘not quite the thing’. Lady Windlesham freely acknowledged that he was asked to parties for his entertainment value and not because he was a popular figure.
‘Would you say he had enemies, sir?’ Conant asked deferentially of Cleveland. ‘Someone present who bore him a grudge?’
‘Too strong a word, enemies,’ objected the politician. ‘His quips occasionally stung, but I don’t think anyone took him seriously. Certainly not seriously enough to do away with him.’
Nevertheless, by means of a hint dropped here and an incautious word there, Conant came to learn of the quarrel between Yarnton and Velmond.
This altered matters. Not only had Lord Velmond attempted to assault the victim, but he had been the one to discover the body. Questioned, he admitted that there had been no one else in the cloakroom at the time; so there were no witnesses to his assertion that when he came upon Yarnton, the man was already dead.
Conant and his fellow magistrate looked grave.
Having established that not much more than half an hour could have elapsed between Velmond’s quarrel with Yarnton and the former’s visit to the cloakroom, it was not difficult to fix an approximate time for the murder. It then became important to know if any other gentleman had visited the cloakroom during this period and had seen the victim alive. No one admitted to doing so; and it was impossible to check because the attendant had been missing from his post — a dereliction of duty for which Lady Windlesham’s butler indicated that heads would roll.
‘Don’t help us at all,’ said Conant’s assistant in an undertone to his superior. ‘Looks as if this Lord Velmond’s our man.’
‘Tut, tut, a peer of the realm,’ objected Sir Nathaniel.
‘There was that Lord Cochrane involved in the Stock Exchange fraud two years ago,’ the other reminded him.
‘Quite a different affair, my dear fellow; stocks and shares are a natural medium, one might say, for — um — any inclination towards crime which might be harboured by the Quality. But murder is a vastly different kettle of fish. We must proceed very carefully in this affair — indeed, with the utmost circumspection. More evidence is needed, much more, before we venture upon an arrest. We must look into the deceased’s affairs, search his residence for any clue to a more convincing motive than a few hasty words exchanged between two gentlemen at a party.’
This was agreed; but nevertheless Velmond was requested, in the most diffident way possible, not to leave London until further investigations had been pursued. Although this was not mentioned to Velmond, Runner Joseph Watts, formerly a sergeant in Wellington’s army and a man of resource and initiative, was instructed to keep strict surveillance on the young nobleman.
Nothing was said between the Velmonds on the subject which was occupying the minds of both. On the following day they went about their own concerns, scarcely meeting until late in the afternoon when Velmond strode into the library and found his wife sitting there.
She gave a start and dropped the book which had rested in her hands, open at the same page for the past half hour.
He stooped automatically to retrieve it.
‘Thank you,’ she said in a small voice, taking it from him.
‘This damnable business!’ he exclaimed bitterly. ‘There’s been a man following me about all day! He may think I don’t notice, but I ain’t such a gudgeon as that. A Runner, I collect. Next thing they’ll haul me off to Newgate, I suppose. Oh, well — damned if I care more than half.’
‘Oh, you mustn’t say so!’ she replied in tones of deep distress. ‘They cannot possibly think that you — that you’d do such a thing,’ she finished weakly.
‘Why not?’ He fixed her with a searching look. ‘I was furious with the man, wasn’t I? Do you believe I couldn’t have done it? Answer me truthfully!’
Tears brimmed over her eyes and fell on to the book on her lap. He snatched it away angrily, flinging it upon a side table.
‘I see you prefer not to answer. My own wife! What chance that anyone else could believe me innocent?’
She started up, attempting to embrace him, but he pushed her away.
‘But I do, I do!’ she protested, sobbing. ‘Oh, if only it had never happened! If only —’
‘If only that scoundrel hadn’t seen you on your clandestine outing,’ he finished in a biting tone. ‘Where were you going, I wonder? Useless to ask — a husband is always the last to know in these matters.’
She made a strong effort to pull herself together. She had been expecting this question and had her answer ready.
‘I would have told you, but that I thought you might disapprove of my trying to help. It was for Sally, you know —’
‘Sally? Who in thunder’s Sally?’
‘She’s one of the housemaids; she does the fire in my room. Her family were in trouble — they’re terribly poor, you know — and I wanted to assist them. And so — and so —’ She hesitated, then went on in a rush, ‘I didn’t like to take your carriage into such a low quarter so I took a hackney, and I wore a veil so that if by chance anyone saw me —’
She could not continue under his penetrating stare. Would he believe her? She had done her best, and it was not so very far from the truth. Sally would bear her out, if questioned. But oh, dear God, if only it had not been necessary to deceive him!
‘And you expect me to believe this farrago?’ he demanded contemptuously. ‘Don’t concern yourself; I’ve no intention of questioning the housemaid! I wonder, though —’ As a sudden tho
ught struck him, he continued, ‘— where Mr Thompson comes into this story? I noticed you changed colour when that fellow Yarnton mentioned his name.’
Again her cheeks paled, and she looked as if she might swoon. He pushed her back into a chair, although not roughly. He rang for a servant, and one of the footmen appeared.
‘My lady is unwell. Bring her maid,’ he ordered as he strode from the room.
He neither knew nor cared where he was going as he rushed out of the house and through the busy streets. He was halted at last by someone calling his name. He turned, like a man in a dream.
‘Where the deuce are you galloping off to, George, old fellow?’
The speaker was a man of his own age, a little above medium height with a spare yet muscular frame. His hat was perched carelessly on a mop of curling dark hair that partly concealed a high forehead, and his brown eyes glinted with alert intelligence. He put out a hand to grasp Velmond’s, grinning at him.
‘You appear to be propelled by one of Boulton and Watt’s steam engines, George. Whither away?’
Velmond wrung the proffered hand cordially, his face clearing a little.
‘Good to see you, Justin. So you’re back.’
The other shook his head quizzically. ‘No, am I?’
‘Don’t be a gudgeon. Where have you been this time?’
‘France. Took a notion to see the standing stones at Carnac. Ever been there?’
Velmond shook his head.
‘Should do. Most impressive. Beats our own Avebury circle into a cocked hat. Though mind you, Stonehenge —’
He broke off, studying his friend’s face with a shrewd yet sympathetic expression.
‘Don’t think you’re quite in the mood for talk of prehistoric sites. Something’s up, George — care to tell me about it?’
‘Yes, b’God, I would,’ replied Velmond fervently. ‘But not here, I think.’ He glanced round the crowded pavement, aware for the first time of his surroundings. ‘And I don’t particularly wish to return home just at present,’ he added slowly.
A Reputation Dies: A thrilling combination of detective fiction and romance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 1) Page 2
