Anthea seemed satisfied with this and moved on to another matter which was puzzling her.
‘I wonder,’ she said ruminatively, ‘just how it was that Yarnton came to know of this blackmailer? You had not previously told anyone of the letter you received, and it seems that the other victim was likewise discreet. Of course, Yarnton was the kind of person who made a point of searching out the secrets of others, but the blackmailer has taken care to cover his tracks so thoroughly that even my astute relative — and he is more than common clever, you know! — cannot so far discover him. I suppose there wasn’t any way in which Yarnton could have known of your predicament? He did see you go to the pawnshop, recollect. Could he possibly have discovered the reason for that visit?’
Lucy shook her head.
‘Oh, no, how could he? Even if he went into the shop after I had left, and inquired what I was doing there —’
‘Which you may be sure he did, on some pretext,’ put in Anthea.
‘Even so, he could not possibly find out why I was selling the necklace,’ pointed out Lucy.
‘True.’
Anthea still looked thoughtful.
‘There’s only one thing,’ said Lucy doubtfully. ‘You may recall that I told you I handed the packet for Thompson to the postman personally? Well, now I come to think of it — for I was agitated at the time, as you will readily understand — that man Yarnton was strolling past, nearby. Only I did not dare to linger but fled back indoors and shut myself away in my room to recover. But I don’t quite see how he could possibly make anything of that, do you?’
‘Do I not?’ demanded Anthea excitedly. ‘When he had observed you only a short time before at the pawnbroker’s? It was the same day, I presume, for I remember your telling Justin that you sent the money off at once?’
Lucy nodded.
‘Well then,’ declared Anthea triumphantly. ‘He followed you home, I expect, then hung about to see what else you might do to add colour to his nasty little scandal. Seeing you hand a packet to the postman, he would be quite capable of managing to get a peep at it and observe the direction written on it. And then — and then — why, yes! Perhaps he watched at the Chancery Lane office until someone came to collect that same packet. Then he would know who Thompson was and doubtless guess the truth, or something close enough to it to use as a weapon in his campaign of malice!’
‘It may be so, and I’m sure you’re very clever to think of it, Anthea. But I still don’t see how it would assist Mr Rutherford in finding out who this odious creature can be, do you?’
Anthea’s face fell. ‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘Neither do I. And although Justin doesn’t know that Yarnton saw you hand the packet to the postman, I dare say he’s worked out for himself just how it might have been possible for Yarnton to find out about Thompson. But at least he may not have realized that Dr Wetherby could have learned of your secret through Mrs Cleveland’s tattling, for he doesn’t know that female as we do — as I do, at all events. Oh, how I do wish, Lucy, that I could take a more active part in assisting him! It’s so tiresome at times to be a female, don’t you think?’
This was obviously a point of view that had never crossed Lucy’s mind before, but she nevertheless dutifully assented.
‘I think possibly I may be able to dispense with your services for a few days, Peyton,’ Cleveland said to his secretary that same afternoon. ‘There’s nothing that urgently concerns me going on in the House at present, so I thought of joining my wife in Norfolk. I dare say you’ll be glad of a few days’ holiday.’
Peyton appeared surprised. ‘You are very good, sir, but I do not find my duties onerous. And I had the impression that there were one or two matters —’
Cleveland waved the rest of the sentence away.
‘Pooh, nothing that can’t wait. Your devotion to duty is exemplary, my dear fellow, but I trust I’m not the kind of employer who keeps the noses of his staff constantly to the grindstone. All work and no play, you know,’ he added in a jovial tone. ‘Your family must be wishing to see you again, I’m sure.’
‘I visited them at Christmas, sir.’
‘That’s over three months since. Dammit, boy, you sound as reluctant to take a holiday as most men to resume work after one! Is there no pretty female in your neighbourhood at home to whom you’re anxious to return, even if filial duty fails to call you there?’
Peyton smiled. ‘None that I can recall, sir.’
Cleveland gave him a curious glance. He was not a man who concerned himself greatly with those who served him, but occasionally he did indulge a fleeting speculation as to how this model secretary of his passed his spare time. He knew little of Roderick Peyton’s background, for the family connection with Sophia Cleveland was very slight. The young man’s mother was a distant cousin of some kind, Cleveland understood, though he had never troubled himself to untangle the precise relationship. A nearer relative had solicited Sophia’s benevolence on Roderick Peyton’s behalf, and she had promptly seized what appeared to be a heaven-sent opportunity to provide her husband with a much-needed secretary at low cost.
‘Wouldn’t surprise me to learn that there’s no shortage of ’em, where you’re concerned,’ he said with a rare venture into intimacy.
‘Thank you, sir, but you flatter me. I am more concerned with making my way in the world at present, however, rather than branching out in the petticoat line.’
‘Quite right, quite right,’ approved Cleveland, regretting his impulse towards informality. ‘Well, you may pack up and take yourself off this evening, if you wish. I have an engagement which will keep me out until the small hours, so I’ll start for Norfolk in the morning.’
He nodded and was turning away to quit the room when Peyton checked him diffidently.
‘Beg pardon, Mr Cleveland, but when would you wish me to return?’
Cleveland looked nonplussed for a moment.
‘Ah, yes, now let me see. Today’s Thursday, is it not? Shall we say on Monday evening or Tuesday? That should do.’
Peyton bowed. ‘You are very good, sir,’ he repeated.
‘Not at all. Goodbye, my dear fellow, and do contrive to amuse yourself.’
He closed the door. Peyton continued to stand beside his desk, his brow creased in thought.
Was Cleveland truly intending to join his wife at their daughter’s place in Norfolk? He doubted it. Two and a half years living in the household had shown him that they were far from being a closely united family. Husband and wife quarrelled constantly, mostly about the latter’s extravagance. As for that little minx Cecilia, she had been glad enough to quit the family roof for an establishment of her own last autumn. It was scarcely to be expected that she would be devoted to her parents, since she had spent most of her time away at school in Bath except for the year before her marriage.
But if Cleveland were not going to Norfolk, then what else had he in mind? A mistress, perhaps? Peyton shrugged; unlikely. He knew a great deal about his employer’s concerns, and not only the professional matters which would naturally be his proper province. He had never come across any hint of an amorous connection, though.
There was one other possibility that occurred to him. He considered it for a few minutes, then nodded, satisfied.
He began to go through the papers on his desk, sorting them methodically, filing some and dealing with others. He was not the kind of man who could leave his effects in a muddle.
That done, he straightened up and gave some thought to what he should do with his unexpected holiday. One thing was certain; he would not be going home to visit his family. He had quitted them without regret on going up to Cambridge six years ago and had rarely been back since. The house was small and uncomfortable, full of younger half-brothers and sisters all falling over each other, and his stepmother was a feckless housekeeper. There was no love lost between his father and himself either, so that it had been a mutual relief when his grandfather had left a small legacy to enable Roderick to go to Ca
mbridge. The Clevelands knew little of this, for they did not concern themselves with him. He had no illusions about their reasons for giving him employment.
There were several ways in which he could usefully spend the time, he decided. For one thing, he would pay a visit to the theatre this evening.
CHAPTER 14
The performance at the Olympic theatre had not gone well that evening. Necessary but unfortunate economies in the wardrobe department had literally forced the leading lady — a buxom if handsome female — into a costume several sizes too small. Having deplored this fact at some length at the full pitch of her trained voice, she finally condescended to go on stage, like the experienced trouper she was.
During the first part of her performance, she contrived reasonably well by taking small, mincing steps and being careful never to expand her lungs. The audience soon noticed this and showed its disapprobation by means of catcalls and orange peel. In desperation, she gave an over-enthusiastic rendering of the heart-breaking scene where she was parted forever from her child. Not hearts, but her bodice, broke asunder, and she was obliged to continue with both hands clasped affectingly over the rift.
The audience loved this, responding with hearty laughter and a stamping of feet. Driven from the stage, Eliza Nympsfield collapsed in her dingy dressing-room in floods of angry tears. The curtain was lowered and a timorous Harlequin thrust from behind it with instructions to keep the audience happy.
The unfortunate Eliza was still giving an enraged private performance backstage to a propitiatory audience of the manager, the wardrobe mistress, some lesser members of the company, a couple of stage hands and the call boy, when a welcome diversion was created by the arrival of the actress’s gentleman friend.
He was a stockily-built man whose face suggested that he brooked no nonsense; he had a square jaw and beetling eyebrows over a pair of shrewd grey eyes. His dress, though fashionable, was unostentatious, in the tradition of that arbiter of sartorial taste, Beau Brummell.
A few quiet words from him soon sent the other members of the company away, leaving him alone with Eliza. She abated her histrionics somewhat, but still insisted on pouring out her woes. He nodded from time to time sympathetically, but eventually succeeded in giving her thoughts a new direction by producing a jeweller’s case, like a conjurer’s rabbit from a hat, and setting it down before her on the spotted and scratched dressing table.
She picked it up quickly, stopping in mid-sentence.
‘For me?’ she asked in her best stage manner.
He nodded, moving to stand behind her as she turned towards the discoloured mirror.
‘For the most beautiful actress to adorn any theatre,’ he responded, well within the script. ‘Only say that you like it, my dear.’
She opened the case and gave a genuine gasp of admiration. Inside reposed a pendant necklace of gold filigree set with emeralds, rubies and diamonds. She lifted it out and held it against her neck, admiring the gleam and glitter of the stones in the candlelight.
He leaned forward and fastened the clasp, watching as she turned her head this way and that, fascinated.
While she revelled in the sensuous beauty of the necklace, her thoughts were busy. This piece must have cost a fortune, and he had not known her for very long. He bid fair to be more rewarding than the string of gentlemen who had sought and won her favours in the past. Might it not be advantageous to renounce her stage career, which had never attained the first flight, and place herself permanently under his protection? But a lifetime of looking out for herself urged caution — besides, he had not yet suggested such a step. Men were notoriously fickle, and the Town abounded in ladybirds. A few valuable pieces of jewellery such as this — she had one or two similarly acquired though not quite so expensive already in her possession — were a safer insurance against a rainy day than a premature retirement from her profession in favour of a protector who might withdraw his expensive gifts once he was sure of her.
She turned a smiling face towards him, her ill-humour quite banished.
‘Like it — I quite dote on it!’ she assured him. ‘How you do spoil poor little me, to be sure!’
‘Pah, a mere bagatelle,’ he replied with a dismissive sweep of his hand. ‘Should you like it if we went to the supper party in Hertford Street?’
The house in Hertford Street was the residence of Fanny, sister of Harriette Wilson, the fashionable courtesan. Her champagne and chicken suppers were well known among the demi-reps and their gentlemen. The latter were usually members of the ton, and they found the free manners and uninhibited behaviour obtaining at these suppers infinitely more to their taste than the formality of Almack’s or the drawing-rooms of the fashionable London hostesses.
She accepted this suggestion enthusiastically. Soon she was changed, powdered, perfumed, and with the magnificent necklace prominently displayed by a dashingly décolleté gown of rose silk, she accompanied him to the waiting luxurious chaise.
A nondescript figure in a suit of fustian watched from the flagway while the pair settled themselves into the chaise. He overheard the gentleman give the directions to his coachman. In spite of his appearance, the loiterer knew very well exactly what company could be found at the house in Hertford Street. He grinned to himself in the shadows. It was safe to assume that the couple would remain there for several hours, thus giving him ample time for the business he had in mind.
He was on the point of turning away to set about this when a man came reeling out of the lighted exit of the theatre. He cannoned into the loiterer, apologizing in slurred accents.
For a moment, the watcher caught a good look at his face. The man was still wearing make-up, so evidently was one of the cast. He was in his mid-twenties, fair-skinned with a slightly bulbous nose. His hat was tipped at a perilous angle over one eye.
As soon as he realized the humble station of the person on whom he had wasted an apology, his tone changed.
‘Out of the way, fellow,’ he amended with a shaky attempt at dignity. ‘Give place to your betters!’
The loiterer shrank back quickly, watching the other make his unsteady way along the street. He heard a chuckle from behind him and turned to see the stage doorkeeper about to shut up the theatre for the night.
‘Don’t ye heed him, cully,’ the man said indulgently. ‘For one thing, he’s half seas over, for another he’s naught but a h’extra who’ve been ’ere no more’n a few months, nor not likely to stay much longer, the drunken sot. Airs and graces enough for a star, has Mr Theobald Treherne. Theobald Treherne, I don’t think — more likely Bill Smith! I knows his sort!’
The loiterer mumbled some vague reply and turned away. Once the doorkeeper had locked up and extinguished the lights, the street outside the theatre was dark. No one else was about. The man turned a corner, straightened up, and threw about him a gentleman’s evening cloak which he had been carrying bundled up under his arm.
Transformed by this garment into a seemingly respectable fare, he had no difficulty in securing a hackney to take him to Harley Street.
Joe Watts had made good use of his acquaintance with the pretty housemaid at the Clevelands’ residence to learn quite a bit about the movements of the inmates. He knew that on this particular evening, both Cleveland himself and his secretary would be out and were not expected back until after midnight. The servants had been instructed not to wait up and were all planning — so Joe’s informant told him — to make an early night of it while they had the chance. As most of them had to be astir by half-past five in the morning, this could scarcely be considered surprising. He had also made himself familiar with the layout of the house and knew how to reach Cleveland’s study on the ground floor from the backstairs. All that remained for him to do was to lie low in the small garden at the rear of the house until he saw that the lights in the kitchen quarters had been extinguished.
He knew where he could gain an entry to the house through the larder window, which was always left open a few inches at the t
op. He told himself he must drop a warning about this habit once he had made use of it. It would never do to encourage genuine burglars.
He had prudently provided himself with a small dark lantern, a necessity for this kind of operation, which he fastened to his belt in order to leave both hands free. Climbing stealthily through the larder window was simple enough, and fortunately there was no shelf immediately beneath it. He eased back the shutter of his lantern a fraction to give him the benefit of a glimmer of light, then tiptoed across the floor of the larder and cautiously opened the door.
It gave into the kitchen, where the dull glow of a fire banked down for the night relieved the gloom. It was not the first time he had been in these quarters; he crossed confidently but softly to the door leading into a passage beyond, which would bring him to the backstairs.
He crept stealthily up the flight, testing every step as he ascended, like a cat on hot bricks. At the top he paused to listen, darkening his lantern for the moment.
The house was as silent as an empty church.
Encouraged, he showed a light again, moving along the passage until he reached the door of the study.
He entered cautiously, making sure the shutters were closed behind the curtains before he ventured to light the candles in the room. Softly he turned the key in the lock. At least he would have warning should anyone arrive and at a pinch could escape through a window.
There were two pedestal writing desks of mahogany in the room. The smaller would doubtless be used by Peyton. Should there be time, he would also like to examine the contents of that, but Cleveland’s was the more important.
There were six drawers in the larger desk. He tugged at them all, discovering two were locked. He made a wry face. Anything of interest was sure to be contained in those two. He could pick the locks — it would not be the first time a Runner had used burglar’s tools — but to do so would leave behind evidence of interference. He looked about him. Was there any chance that Cleveland left his keys where his secretary could find them in his absence, or did he habitually carry them about with him? It could well be that there were some papers he would prefer to keep secret even from his secretary.
A Reputation Dies: A thrilling combination of detective fiction and romance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 1) Page 12
