Supping With Panthers

by Tom Holland

  He locked the door to the flat after him, then climbed the stairs to the second floor. ‘You think that it was the Indian, then, who was the murderer?’ I asked, following him.

  ‘We are merely amassing possibilities,’ answered Eliot. ‘But we have destroyed our Rajah’s alibi, for although he was heard ascending the stairs, that does not prove that he came in from the street. Yes, I think he could have quite easily hidden himself while Lucy fetched the police, and then retreated back down to the front door as quietly as he could.’

  ‘But what would he have done with the corpse?’ I asked.

  ‘That is the mystery,’ Eliot replied. He removed his eye-glass from his pocket again, and bent down. He studied the carpet carefully, but after a few minutes he shook his head and stood up again. ‘There are no traces of blood. They could have been washed away subsequently, of course, but I think even so we would notice the marks. No,’ he said, shaking his head again, ‘this narrows down the possibilities.’

  ‘You have a theory, then?’ I asked.

  ‘It would certainly seem,’ he replied, ‘that we are approaching a solution,’ He paused suddenly and his nostrils widened, as though struck by the scent of a possible trail. When he looked up at me, I saw that his eyes were gleaming like burnished steel. ‘Come, Stoker,’ he said, turning and making for the stairs. ‘Let us go now and visit the jeweller’s shop.’

  We did so at once. As my companion pushed open the door, a small, white-haired man came up to him. ‘Can I be of assistance, sir?’ he asked, rubbing his hands as though soaping them.

  Eliot glanced at the shopkeeper with great hauteur, then perused the shelves and cabinets. Several seconds passed. ‘I believe,’ said Eliot at length, drawling slightly, ‘that you are Mr Headley, the jeweller to Lady Mowberley.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the man uncertainly. ‘I have that honour.’

  ‘Very good,’ Eliot turned his gaze upon him. ‘Some time ago, I dined with her and Sir George. It was in honour of her birthday. Lady Mowberley was wearing some striking jewels which were purchased, I believe, from this very shop. They had then been presented to his wife as a gift from Sir George.’

  Mr Headley frowned and scratched his head. ‘If you would care to wait, sir, I will consult my books.’

  He began to shuffle towards the counter, but Eliot shook his head. ‘No, no,’ he said impatiently, ‘there is no need to look. You will remember the jewels, I am sure. They were quite distinctive. Earrings and a necklace, from the region of India named Kalikshutra.’ Eliot pronounced the last word with great emphasis; when he spoke again, there was an edge to his voice. ‘You will remember them,’ he said slowly. ‘I am certain you will.’

  The shopkeeper looked uneasily between the two of us. They were never my property,’ he said at last.

  Eliot frowned. ‘But they were in your shop window, were they not?’ He paused, then slowly nodded his head. ‘Yes, I seem to remember Lady Mowberley being quite definite on the matter. She had seen them in your display whilst out walking with Sir George, and he came here subsequently to purchase them. I am certain it was this shop.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘It could have been no other. You were after all, were you not, Sir George’s valet?’

  The old man had started to twist his hands again, clearly agitated. ‘It is quite true,’ he said in a querulous voice, ‘that Sir George and Lady Mowberley saw the jewels in my display. But I repeat, sir – they were not mine to sell. By the time Sir George came back here, they had been returned to their place of provenance.’

  Eliot shook his head impatiently. ‘Place of provenance? I don’t understand.’

  ‘They had been loaned to me.’

  ‘By whom?’

  The jeweller swallowed. ‘By a man who wished to enter into business with me.’

  ‘So he is the one with the jewels from Kalikshutra?’

  ‘Yes, but if you are interested I have jewellery from other regions of India, and indeed from all around the world…’

  ‘No, no,’ interrupted Eliot, ‘it must be Kalikshutra. If you don’t have the jewels, then I must go to the man who does. How am I to get in touch with him?’

  Mr Headley frowned. ‘Who are you?’ he asked with sudden suspicion.

  ‘My name is Dr John Eliot.’

  ‘A friend of Lady Mowberley, you said?’

  ‘And is there any reason why I should not be?’ Eliot replied. A look of sudden alertness had blazed up in his eyes, for I could tell this last comment had interested him greatly. But he did not pursue its implications; instead, he leaned forward on the counter and, when he spoke, did so in a tone of perfect affability. ‘We are both of us, Mr Stoker and myself, keen collectors of artefacts from the Himalayas. Stoker, please give Mr Headley your card.’ Eliot paused as the old man inspected my address; then, without saying a word, he pushed a guinea over the counter and into Mr Headley’s hands.

  ‘Now,’ said Eliot, when the jeweller had taken the coin, ‘we are keen to trace your colleague. Perhaps, first of all, you could tell us what your own relationship is with him – just so that we know how we ought to proceed.’

  The old man creased his brow. ‘He came to me – oh – about six or seven months ago, it would have been.’

  Eliot nodded. ‘Good. And what did he propose?’

  Again, the old man frowned, and looked suspiciously between us as though still not certain of our purpose with him.

  ‘Please, Mr Headley,’ said Eliot. ‘What did he propose?’

  ‘He proposed,’ replied the old man, ‘he proposed … an agreement.’

  ‘Well, naturally,’ said Eliot coldly, ‘it would hardly have been a marriage. Come, Mr Headley, you are not being straight with us.’

  ‘All in good time,’ muttered the jeweller, blinking up at us defiantly. ‘He told me – this colleague of mine – he said he had top-grade jewellery. I didn’t believe him at first – you get all kinds of nonsense in my line of trade, as I’m sure you can appreciate – but as it turned out… well, sir, you’ve seen some of it yourself hung around Lady Mowberley’s throat – beautiful, it was, really beautiful. He had a small shop, he said, down by the docks…’

  ‘Where, exactly?’ Eliot asked.

  ‘Rotherhithe, sir.’

  ‘You have his address?’

  Mr Headley nodded, bent down and pulled out a drawer. ‘Here, sir,’ he said, handing up a card. Eliot took it. ‘“John Polidori,” he read. “Three Coldlair Lane, Rotherhithe.”’ He looked up at the old man. ‘He is Italian, then, this Mr Polidori?’

  ‘If he is,’ replied the shopkeeper, ‘then he speaks English better than any foreigner that I’ve ever heard.’

  ‘There was a John Polidori,’ I said, ‘who was Lord Byron’s personal physician for a while. He wrote a short story which we adapted once for the Lyceum.’

  Eliot glanced at me. ‘You are surely not suggesting he might be the same man? How old would he be now?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ I replied, ‘Lord Byron’s Polidori killed himself, I believe. No, I’m sorry, Eliot, I only mentioned it because of the coincidence.’

  ‘I see. How fascinating you are, Stoker, with your theatrical reminiscences.’ Eliot turned back to the old man. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we have been quite distracted. Where were we? Yes. This Mr Polidori came to you. He had jewellery.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what did he want with you?’

  Mr Headley smiled. ‘He had a problem. He had the goods – but that was basically all he had. I mean, who’s going to go down to Rotherhithe? Not your real nobs, not your gentlemen with money to spend. If you’re going to set up shop in a serious way, well, sir, it’s got to be Bond Street’

  Eliot nodded. ‘And so that was where you came in?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He’d supply the goods to me, and I’d display them.’

  ‘And the jewels from Kalikshutra – why didn’t he leave you to sell those particular items yourself?’

  ‘As I mentioned, sir, he has a shop of his ow
n. That’s the address, on that card you’ve got.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Eliot, his eyes starting to gleam again. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Sometimes, with certain customers, he’d want them to come and visit him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It was those who he thought had a special interest in jewellery – collectors, if you like. He preferred to deal with them direct.’

  ‘And so you would point them in his way?’

  ‘If you like, sir. It was good business; he always gave me a decent return.’

  ‘And Sir George? He was one of those you pointed down to Rotherhithe, then?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Quite specific about it, Mr Polidori was. “Get me Sir George,” he said. “Whatever he comes in and asks for – tell him you haven’t got it. Send him down to me.”‘

  ‘You didn’t find this surprising?’

  ‘No, sir, why should I have done?’

  ‘Because Sir George, so far as I am aware, has never been a collector of jewellery in his life. Why would your colleague have been interested in him?’

  Mr Headley smiled faintly beneath his moustache. ‘He may not collect it for himself,’ he said, ‘but there’s plenty of others he collects it for.’ He winked. ‘If you get my meaning, sir.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Eliot shortly. He did not smile in return. ‘Yes, I think I do.’

  The old man looked suddenly worried. ‘You won’t take what I just said the wrong way, I hope, sir,’ he stammered.

  ‘Wrong way?’

  ‘Well …’ The jeweller swallowed. ‘I do realise, sir, that Lady Mowberley must be worried, and I do feel for her, really I do.’

  ‘Indeed, Headley? And why is that?’

  The old man frowned. As he looked up and stared into Eliot’s face, he seemed suddenly quite hostile again, and when he spoke his voice was measured and cold. ‘I think, sir,’ he said slowly, ‘that if you need to ask…’

  ‘Yes?’ pressed Eliot impatiently.

  ‘Then I shouldn’t tell you.’ Mr Headley was unblinking, his face set like a stone. ‘Not if you don’t know already, sir. I am sorry’ – he paused, then spoke the word with offensive dullness – ‘sir.’

  Eliot raised a hand to reach into his pocket.

  ‘Don’t you go trying with your bribes,’ the old man said. ‘You won’t get me that way again.’

  Eliot slowly lowered his hand again. ‘Very well,’ he said. His face, I was surprised to observe, seemed suddenly good-humoured and almost relieved. ‘At least tell me this, then,’ he asked.

  The jeweller stared at him, but didn’t reply.

  ‘You have seen Sir George recently? Within the past week or two?’

  Still the old man made no reply.

  ‘I must be honest with you,’ said Eliot ‘I am indeed working for Lady Mowberley. I am sorry that I felt it necessary to deceive you. But she wishes only to know if Sir George is still alive – nothing more. She is a wife, Mr Headley – you are married yourself, I know. So please’ – he stared straight into the old man’s eyes – ‘I appeal to you. Have you seen Sir George during the past two weeks? Please, Mr Headley,’ He paused. ‘Lady Mowberley is very concerned.’

  The jeweller looked away. He stared out at the street, then he turned back to face Eliot.

  ‘When?’ Eliot asked.

  Still Mr Headley did not blink.

  ‘Out on the street? You saw him there?’

  The old man shrugged.

  ‘Good.’ Eliot paused. ‘When?’

  The jeweller sighed. ‘Two days ago,’ he said at last.

  Thank you, Mr Headley,’ Eliot paused, then smiled. ‘You must be very fond of Sir George,’ he observed.

  ‘Always have been,’the old man replied gruffly. ‘Ever since he was a babe.’

  Eliot nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is a relief to witness.’

  ‘A relief, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Headley, a relief.’ He turned to me, and his face did indeed seem mobile with precisely that emotion. ‘Come, Stoker. We have completed our business here,’ He glanced down at the card which he still held in his hand. ‘I shall call on Mr Polidori in due course. But for now’ – he raised his hat – ‘good morning to you, Mr Headley. You have been of great assistance. Thank you for your time.’ And with that, he turned and left the shop.

  I followed him out into the street. ‘Well, Eliot,’ I asked impatiently, ‘what did you make of him?’

  That he was honest and loyal.’

  ‘Yes, loyal to Sir George, certainly. But were you expecting him not to be?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘Why, what did you suspect?’

  Eliot paused in his walk and turned back to gesture at the building we had just left. ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘that the Headleys not only occupy the shop but also live on the second floor. Anything out of the ordinary that happens in that building is bound, in the due course of time, to come to their attention. That much was clear even from Lucy’s narrative.’ He turned and began to walk again, speaking as he did so in a low urgent voice. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘suppose that Headley had been suborned. Suppose that he had been part of a conspiracy against Sir George. How much blacker would our case seem then! For it is evident, I think, that whatever it was that Lucy witnessed in that flat, it was not some sudden catastrophe but rather an episode in a sequence of events, stretching back probably for several months. Headley himself must have been aware that something was going on – it staggers credibility to think that he was not.’

  ‘But why then would he not reveal it to us?’

  ‘Because, as we have just agreed, he believes he is being loyal to Sir George himself – which in turn implies that he has not thought Sir George to be in any danger during this time.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I remembered what the old man had been hinting at. ‘He seemed to be saying that Sir George was having an affair.’

  Eliot nodded. ‘I cannot say I was surprised by his suggestion. When Lady Mowberley first came to me, the suspicion struck me immediately. George was always ill-disciplined with the fairer sex. Naturally, I have not imparted this theory to Lady Mowberley herself.’

  ‘So what are you saying, Eliot, that you still think it possible?’

  ‘Oh, more than possible, I would think it certain he has been having a romance of some kind.’

  ‘So why then was he killed?’

  ‘I do not believe that he was killed.’

  ‘But…’ I stared at him in astonishment. ‘Lucy said – she saw him being…’

  ‘No, no,’ said Eliot, shaking his head as he interrupted me, ‘it is quite impossible. You saw the carpets with your own eyes. No blood-letting took place in that room, no slicing of anyone’s throat. And yet we have a mystery. George was seen there by Lucy from the street, but when she entered the room he was gone. Where to? What had happened to him?’

  ‘I confess, I am baffled.’

  ‘Surely not, a man of your keen wit?’

  I thought. ‘I have it!’ I cried. ‘Sir George was throttled, and his corpse hidden away in the Headleys’ flat!’

  ‘Very good,’replied Eliot, a thin smile on his lips, ‘but unlikely. We have just agreed on Headle,’s loyalty to his old master. He would be unenthusiastic, I suggest, about harbouring anyone who had Sir George’s corpse in tow.’

  ‘You are right, of course.’ I shrugged and shook my head.

  ‘Come, Stoker, think! Two solutions present themselves immediately.’

  ‘They do?’

  ‘Yes, as clearly as day,’ Eliot glanced at me, and his glittering eyes were those of an expert with a challenge worthy of his skills. The first, I regret to say, is by some way the least likely of the two, but it is possible, I would conjecture, that the Rajah is Sir George himself. The idea struck me during Lucy’s narrative. Yes, yes,’ he said hurriedly, seeing me open my mouth to object, ‘I have already agreed it is improbable. Lucy saw the Rajah and spoke to him. She is remarkably observant, and knows Sir
George well; she would not be a person easily deceived. Also – it leaves unexplained what she saw at the window of the flat. However, we are agreed that Sir George has been conducting an affair; if we are correct, he would then have the motive for disguising himself. Our theory would also explain the Rajah’s presence at the theatre last night – he had come to see his ward’s first night. So I am unwilling to discount the idea altogether. I would prefer first to observe the Rajah for myself.’

  I shook my head. ‘I am not convinced, Eliot. The difficulties of the theory seem to me far to outweigh the advantages.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I agree with you. But we must wait. Who knows what time and careful observation may yet unearth for us?’

  ‘You mentioned a second possibility.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What would that be?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Eliot, his gaunt face seeming visibly to darken before my eyes, ‘we move now into darker territory.’

  ‘Are you able to tell me?’ I asked, for I had detected a hint of reserve in his voice.

  ‘Not every detail,’ he replied, ‘for there are aspects of this affair which touch on great matters of state, and if they do indeed lie behind Sir George’s disappearance – as I fear they may – then we are up against a dangerous and terrible conspiracy. That is why I cling to the hope that the Rajah may yet prove to be Sir George; the alternative, that the Rajah of Kalikshutra is indeed who he claims to be, is too grim to contemplate.’

  ‘But why?’ I asked, both appalled and intrigued. ‘What is this plot which you seem to suspect?’

  ‘You will remember,’ he answered, ‘that my interest in this case was first attracted not by Lucy, but by Lady Mowberley. She has suggested to me – and this is what I find so disturbing – that Sir George’s disappearance is linked to Arthur Ruthven’s death.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ I exclaimed. ‘Linked, Eliot? How?’

  ‘By a very peculiar circumstance. Both men were insulted by anonymous messages. The first was almost comical. Arthur, who I believe held more rare coins than any man in London, was told that his collection had been surpassed and rendered worthless. The second message, which came some time after the first, was more obviously offensive. Lady Mowberley, who has loved her husband from a tender age, was informed that George was an adulterer.’