A Case of Murder in Mayfair (A Freddy Pilkington-Soames Adventure Book 2)

by Clara Benson

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Copyright

  © 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

  ClaraBenson.com

  Cover, interior design and text formatting by Colleen Sheehan

  WDRBookDesign.com

  Cover spine and back by Shayne Rutherford

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  A Case of Murder in Mayfair

  When Hollywood star Dorothy Dacres plummets six floors from her hotel terrace on the night of her greatest triumph, it initially looks like a tragic accident. But her death is so very convenient to her many enemies that press-man Freddy Pilkington-Soames, who was there on the night she died, begins to suspect foul play. And when cocaine is found in her room, it only complicates matters further. Soon Freddy is chasing across London on the trail of drug dealers, in reluctant company with his deadly rival Corky Beckwith, the most unscrupulous reporter in London, who will do anything for a story. With the future of a film studio at stake, can Freddy find the culprit—and get one up on Corky—before he becomes the killer’s next victim?

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  It was a bright, brisk November day, the sort that shows off autumn at its finest. The afternoon sun shone low in the sky, glancing off the windows of the buildings, highlighting the trees in all their multi-coloured magnificence, and dazzling the eyes of the people hurrying about their daily business. A keen wind was blowing, cold, with a hint of frost to come, and the fallen leaves rattled as they skittered merrily along the ground, as though swept by the hand of an invisible giant. London looked pleasant in the sunshine—or this particular corner of London did, at any rate; the corner in which sat the Abingdon Hotel, that well-known haunt of royalty, statesmen, actors and other wealthy people of note. This elegant establishment, which occupied almost half a block in a quiet part of Mayfair not far from Bond Street, offered both luxury and discretion to those who could afford it, and was well used to the comings and goings of its guests at odd times, as well as their sometimes eccentric demands, which it prided itself on its ability to meet. In turn, its wealthy patrons appreciated the superabundance of amenities that were to be had therein, for behind the modest façade of red brick lay a degree of opulence and comfort of which the man in the street could only dream, but which the sort of clientèle the hotel attracted considered as the minimum necessary to make life at all bearable.

  On this particular Tuesday, anyone passing by would have seen a little knot of people standing outside the Abingdon’s grand entrance, chattering to one another with an air of suppressed excitement. The hotel’s commissionaire, smart in his top hat and long coat with silver bands at the wrists, was watching them covertly while appearing not to, in case they decided—against all the rules of good manners and human decency—to rush him in a body and attempt to storm the place. He did not really expect this to happen, but he took his responsibilities very seriously, and was determined that no-one should ever say he had been caught napping. Indeed, the little crowd seemed quite content to stand patiently outside the hotel for as long as necessary. Occasionally, a motor-car would turn into the street, and they would all watch it eagerly as it drew towards them, then sigh and resume their conversations as it continued past without stopping. Several times had they been disappointed in this fashion, but they did not appear to be in any way discouraged, and looked set to stand there for the whole day if necessary.

  Standing back from this group, lounging against a wall on the other side of the street in an attitude of supreme boredom, stood a young man. He wore a battered old Burberry with the buttons fastened up the wrong way and a crushed poppy in the lapel, which he had neglected to remove. His hat looked as though he had rammed it onto his head as an afterthought. A cigarette dangled from one corner of his mouth, and round his neck on a leather strap he carried a contraption that closer investigation revealed to be a folding camera. He had been there for some time, and was in no mood to appreciate the beauties of the day, for he had had little sleep and no lunch, and the cold wind was biting at his extremities most disagreeably. All he wanted was to get the job over and done with, then find the nearest eating-place that served hot meals and spend half an hour or so remedying his current deficiencies of comfort and nourishment.

  He shifted his position and sighed, and at that moment noticed that he was being observed by an elderly man whose eccentric attire and paucity of teeth pronounced him to be a vagrant. The tramp saw he had been spotted, and sidled up to the young man with a look of speculation in his eyes.

  ‘Got a light, guv’nor?’ he said.

  The young man produced a match. The tramp waited expectantly, and the other sighed and dug out a cigarette, which he handed over.

  ‘You’re a gentleman,’ said the tramp, drawing on the gasper with great satisfaction and a smacking of the lips. He gestured at the camera. ‘What’s all this then? You waiting for somebody?’

  ‘Dorothy Dacres,’ said Freddy Pilkington-Soames.

  ‘Who’s that, then?’

  ‘She’s an American film star who is known for her beauty, grace, charm and acting ability. I dare say she’s a whiz at quadratic equations and does good works for the sick and needy, too.’

  ‘Never heard of her,’ said the tramp, and spat.

  ‘Don’t let her hear you say that,’ said Freddy. ‘That sort of talk is death to one of her type. They must be the name on everybody’s lips or they consider their existence to be futile.’

  ‘That so?’ said the tramp. He puffed on the cigarette and ruminated briefly. ‘I ain’t never watched a moving picture except once,’ he said. ‘And I’m half-blind anyway, so I didn’t see much of it. Is that why she’s come? To make one of these pictures?’

  ‘So the rumour has it. There’s to be a big production of some famous play or other, and they’re making it here in England, and everybody’s been wondering who is going to play the leading rôle. The latest word is that it’s going to be Dorothy Dacres
, and I’m here to see if she’ll tell us whether that’s true.’

  ‘All foolery if you ask me,’ said the tramp. ‘A lot of people running around, flapping their mouths and not saying anything. How are we supposed to know what’s happening?’

  ‘Oh, but this is to be a talking picture,’ said Freddy. ‘It’s quite a different thing.’

  ‘A talking picture? Get away with you,’ said the tramp jocularly, in the manner of one who has been entreated to believe in the existence of winged horses.

  ‘It’s true. They’re all the rage now, and rather good fun, too. Why—’

  He was interrupted by a sudden outburst of excited chatter from the little crowd across the road, who had seen another car turn into the street. This time it looked as though it were the real thing, for as it approached the Abingdon it began to slow. Freddy opened his camera and joined the throng, as the car came to a halt outside the front entrance and the commissionaire sprang forward to do his duty. The crowd seemed suddenly to have grown in number, and had to be held back by two or three smartly-uniformed men who had just emerged from the hotel to assist.

  The first person to alight from the car caused the crowd to emit a sigh in unison. He was a tall, handsome man of twenty-five or so, with expressive brown eyes and a boyish smile. This was Robert Kenrick, an English actor who had lately been mentioned as having received several offers from studios in Hollywood to make films for them. He waved at the watchers, then stooped to hand a woman out of the car. The crowd let out a cheer as they saw her, and she put her hand to her breast and blinked, then smiled shyly, as though astonished at such a welcome. Dorothy Dacres had arisen seemingly from nowhere to star in many of the most profitable films of the past few years, and was considered one of the leading actresses of the day. Her golden hair, classical beauty and brilliant smile were loved by the camera and the public alike. She had not made a picture in some time, however, and there were those who whispered that, at thirty-six, she was getting past the useful age, and that her time in the spotlight was coming to an end. Still, as she preened and waved at her adoring audience, nobody could have possibly imagined that she had any such worry on her mind, or that the end of her career was anything but a dim spot on the horizon.

  It now became evident that the crowd consisted of more than just Miss Dacres’ ‘fans,’ for one or two young men with notebooks had appeared as if from nowhere, and began to shout questions at her. Freddy recognized them as fellow-reporters from other publications. They were asking whether she had anything to say about her presumed rôle as the tragic wife Helen Harper in For Every Yesterday, the film that was expected to begin production shortly.

  ‘I can’t say anything at this time,’ she said. ‘But we expect to make an announcement soon.’

  ‘What about the rumours of an engagement between you and Mr. Kenrick?’ said one young man.

  ‘Oh, that’s nonsense,’ said Dorothy Dacres, with a peal of laughter. ‘Wherever did you hear such a thing? Why, Bob and I are merely good friends.’

  Here she turned to touch Kenrick’s arm and give him a flirtatious glance which did nothing to quell the speculation.

  Freddy had been worming his way to the front of the crowd, and now held up the camera to take a picture. Miss Dacres gave him her best side.

  ‘I heard that Augusta Laing is to play the part of Helen Harper,’ said another reporter.

  Dorothy Dacres’ smile faltered, and for a second she looked exceedingly cross, just as the shutter on Freddy’s camera clicked. The smile returned almost immediately.

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to wait and see,’ she said, with a wag of the finger.

  She and Kenrick signed an autograph or two, then turned and were bowed into the Abingdon by the commissionaire. The crowd waited until they were out of sight, then began to disperse. Freddy struggled with the camera, which did not seem to want to fold up again, and grimaced. He feared he had lost his moment.

  ‘Wish I’d brought one,’ said a reporter from the News, gazing enviously at the machine. ‘But they sent me here in a hurry.’

  ‘I think I fluffed the shot anyway,’ said Freddy, prodding at the bellows, which had stuck.

  ‘Tough luck,’ said the other. ‘She wasn’t saying much, was she? I don’t suppose you’ve got anything?’

  ‘No. You?’

  The News reporter shook his head.

  ‘Oh, well,’ he said. ‘I suppose it’ll be the usual puff from the studio again.’

  They both looked up as another car arrived and two people got out. One of them was a young man with an air of great concentration about him. He brought out with him two or three heavy-looking cases, one of which he handed to the commissionaire with an admonishment to be careful with it.

  ‘It’s Seymour Cosgrove, the photographer,’ said the News man. ‘I wonder whether he’s come to do some publicity shots for the film. That must mean they definitely have given her the part. Who’s the other one?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Freddy.

  Whoever he was, he was quite obviously American, given the style of his dress. Perhaps fifty years of age, he was short and powerfully built, with a crumpled face that gave him something of the appearance of a fighter. He strode in through the front door of the Abingdon without hesitation, followed by Seymour Cosgrove.

  ‘I expect he’s one of the film people,’ said the News man. He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, we didn’t get much, but I’d better think of something if I’m to catch the early evening edition. ‘I’d get a new camera if I were you,’ he added. ‘I think that one’s on its last legs. Cheerio.’

  And with that he was off. Freddy struggled with the camera a little while longer, and finally succeeded in shutting it up. He, too, had a story to write, but there were more important things to attend to first, for his stomach was grumbling. He could easily scribble something down while he was eating. He thrust his hands in his pockets and turned away from the cold wind, heading in search of warmth and sustenance.

  In Dorothy Dacres’ palatial suite on the top floor of the Abingdon, all was confusion as Seymour Cosgrove set up the scene for the photographs he was about to take. From the cases had emerged a mountain of photographic equipment, and Cosgrove was currently sitting on the floor in among it all, putting together a tripod. The suite was the best accommodation the Abingdon offered—although they no longer called it a suite, but had recently begun describing it as a penthouse, in order to move with the times—and was reserved for the hotel’s most revered guests. It had three bedrooms and an enormous living-room, in which a baby grand piano stood in pride of place on a fur rug that must have been four inches thick, at least. Above the piano hung a glass and chromium-plated chandelier of such splendour that it quite took one’s breath away. The walls and furnishings were of the latest style—all inlaid walnut and reflective surfaces, tasteful beiges and pastels, with here and there a daring marble statue or a potted palm. The fabrics were from Paris, and the paintings on the walls—depicting subjects that ranged from the angular and garish to the wholly incomprehensible—were the work of the most noted modern artists. The penthouse had not one, but two terraces, the largest of which led off the living-room and was big enough to entertain a hundred people. Of the tariff it is better not to speak, except to say that all inquiries of that nature were referred to the manager, who was the only one permitted to communicate the terms, and who did so in a hushed, discreet voice he kept precisely for that purpose. Miss Dacres herself was reclining on a magnificent sofa which was upholstered in a particular shade of grey that matched her eyes and contrasted beautifully with her dress in coral red. The whole tableau created a pleasing effect of which she was fully aware.

  ‘Will this take long, darling?’ she said to Seymour Cosgrove. ‘I’m awfully tired.’

  He looked about him, then jumped up and went across to the baby grand.

  ‘I like this piano,’ he said, ru
nning his hand over it with a frown. ‘We can do it here. Just you, or you and Kenrick, with the piano and the chandelier. Dramatic, but not too posed.’

  He picked up a photographic lamp and placed it to greater advantage, then studied it for a second and moved it a few inches to the left.

  Robert Kenrick came in from outside. He had achieved fame only recently, and was still new enough to the game to be impressed by everything.

  ‘I say, there are splendid views from the terrace,’ he said.

  ‘Are there?’ said Dorothy, with the jaded air of one used to luxury. ‘I haven’t looked.’

  ‘Oh, but you must. I could see the rooftops of all the buildings for miles around.’

  ‘There’s another terrace off my bedroom, facing the front,’ she said. ‘Go and see if there are still people waiting outside.’

  He did so, and returned after a minute.

  ‘No, it’s all quiet now,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, disconcerted. ‘I guess this cold weather puts people off. In Hollywood the fans will wait outside for hours.’

  ‘I must say, I’m looking forward to seeing America,’ said Kenrick. ‘England’s all very well, but if one wants to be really famous then Hollywood is where it’s at.’

  His enthusiasm and naïveté were quite disarming, and Miss Dacres laughed.

  ‘You’re ambitious and not a bit ashamed of it,’ she said. ‘I like that. Most of you Britishers like to pretend you’re above all that kind of thing, but not you—you make no bones about it.’

  ‘But why should I? I want to be famous and have lots of money. I don’t see it’s anything to be ashamed of. I say,’ he went on, as a thought struck him. ‘People aren’t really saying we’re engaged, are they? Why, we only met two weeks ago. Where did they get that idea?’

  ‘Oh, I telephoned the newspapers and told them,’ said Dorothy. ‘I pretended to be somebody else, naturally, but if people are being slow then sometimes one has to give them a little helping hand.’