The man who came into the office with Bob a few minutes later looked every inch the aristocrat; and the number of inches he boasted were many. Well over six feet tall, he was not as bulky as Ranger, and beside him looked almost slim; by himself, he had an appearance of quiet strength, both of body and of mind. He radiated confidence and dignity—or (as Delphick decided after a second glance) he would do in normal circumstances.
“Chief Superintendent Delphick? It is most kind of you to see me at such short notice. My name is Faulkbourne.” He cleared his throat in a restrained manner. “I have the honour to serve His Grace the Duke of Belton in the capacity of steward to the household.”
Delphick nodded. “Take a seat, Mr. Faulkbourne, and tell me what the problem is. Not another picture robbery, I hope—we can’t guarantee the same success as last time.”
Faulkbourne permitted himself a slight smile. “It is on the subject of that success that I venture to approach you now, sir. One could not help recalling . . .” The smile had faded, to be replaced with the frown which Delphick guessed had been on the steward’s face for some while. “The return of the pictures was most gratifying to His Grace, sir, safe and speedy as it was. But—forgive me—am I not correct in remembering that the greater part of the achievement was due to the, ahem, efforts of a particular member of the public, and not those of the constabulary?”
Above Bob Ranger’s muffled snort, Delphick said sternly: “A particular, not to say unique, member of the public, as you say. Who is attached to the police force in an advisory capacity, and to that extent may be regarded as our official representative, but—”
Faulkbourne coughed. “Excuse me, sir, but I intended to suggest no dissatisfaction concerning either the conduct of the case or its outcome. As I said, His Grace was delighted with the safe return of his stolen property—as, indeed, it must be supposed that the insurance company also was.” And another fleeting smile appeared in his eyes.
“Coveral Assurance,” said Delphick, having thought about it for only a moment. “But all that happened two or three years ago. I’m afraid I don’t quite see why—”
A louder cough on this occasion. “We have received certain instructions, sir, to approach neither the police nor the insurance company until the items have been returned. In other words, sir, once the ransom has been paid . . .”
Delphick knew at once what Faulkbourne meant. “You’ve had a visit from Raffles the Ransomeer?”
“Not I myself, sir.” The steward raised a discreet eyebrow. “The robbery at the Abbey took place in one of the rooms opened to the public. His Grace’s collection of snuffboxes was rifled, sir, and several of the most valuable, and rare, items have been taken. With a ransom note left to the effect that they will not be returned until the sum of”—he could not suppress the quiver in his voice—“ten thousand pounds has been paid. In a manner which is to be communicated to His Grace in due course, sir.”
Since Raffles had neither killed nor seriously injured anyone thus far in his raptorial career, such information as Delphick possessed on his methods had been gleaned from the press, and from the general comments of his constabulary colleagues. He knew enough, however, to understand at once that the crime now being reported followed the usual pattern, although the sum demanded was by far the highest yet. He regarded the steward with interest.
“As the note instructed you—I beg your pardon, the duke—not to communicate with the police, Mr. Faulkbourne, might I ask why, rather than approaching your local force in some cautious fashion, you have chosen to come to Scotland Yard? We are hardly an unknown body, I would have said.”
“Precisely, sir. It is so bold and straightforward an approach that one must suppose Raffles would never conceive of its use: a double bluff, one might say.” The flicker of self-satisfaction which crossed Faulkbourne’s face as he said this could have been regarded, in one less stately, as verging on the smug.
Delphick was interested in such evidence of conceit in a man otherwise so self-effacing—no, someone who was steward in a household as large as Belton could hardly be considered that. He would need presence (as he undoubtedly possessed) and authority: but these would go with the job. A job which must involve discretion, and a strong inclination to serve, and loyalty. “How long,” he enquired, “have you been at the Abbey, Mr. Faulkbourne?”
The steward looked startled at this abrupt change of subject, and bent his noble head for an instant, no doubt in order to look away from Delphick’s keen eye while he consulted some mental calendar. “Eighteen years and seven months, sir. I began as His Late Grace’s under-footman.”
“Then it comes as no surprise that the present duke felt able to entrust to you the task of arranging this meeting. A man with so long a period of honourable service is . . .” But at Faulkbourne’s hasty shake of the head, Delphick fell silent. The steward’s face no longer looked anything but anxious, and his manicured fingers wreathed themselves into a knot of frustration.
“His Grace is away from home at the moment, sir, and has been for some time. He and Lord Pelsall—His Grace’s heir, sir—are in South America. Mountain climbing.” A shudder said more than words ever could about the steward’s views of such energetic pursuits. “In the Andes, I believe, although the household has received little news of the party for some weeks now. The duchess,” he added, as Delphick seemed about to speak, “is travelling by cargo boat to meet up with them in due course, sir: at Lima, possibly, or Santiago—or perhaps Antofagasta. Her Grace’s plans were uncertain when she left ten days ago, I fear.”
“If the whole family’s gone globe-trotting,” burst from Delphick before he could stop himself, “then who on earth is minding the shop? You?”
“Oh no, sir.” Faulkbourne contrived to look shocked at the very idea, though the gleam in his eye suggested that he knew himself capable of minding an entire chain of supermarkets, should duty require it. “His Grace has left the Abbey in the care of his younger son, Lord Edgar Bremeridge. Lord Edgar, I must explain, is unaware that I am here.” Faulkbourne frowned. “I would appreciate it if you were not to tell him of my interference in this matter. His lordship is young: this is his first, ahem, solo effort. His feelings, as you will appreciate, would be deeply hurt. Moreover,” he added, as Delphick prepared to utter a few scathing words on the topic of pampered adolescents, “I fear that I might run some risk of losing my position, for having thus imposed and gone against Master Eddie’s—I beg his pardon, Lord Edgar’s—orders. One could not be at all certain that His Grace, upon his eventual return from the trip, would view with much sympathy so, ahem, blatant an example of disobedience. I do not wish to be branded unreliable, sir. One has one’s professional pride—as you yourself understand, I feel sure.”
“But, good heavens, man, in a case like this, no one in their right mind could possibly blame you for coming to us. It’s what we advise all members of the public to do—never mind if this young lordship of yours thinks he knows better. At that age, they nearly always do . . .” Delphick looked at Faulkbourne with an enquiring eye. The steward dropped his gaze once more.
“Lord Edgar is just twenty-two, sir, and of what one may politely term an excitable temperament on occasion—as, it must be confessed, the whole Family might be described. His Late Grace—the present duke’s father, that is—was noted for his, ahem, volatility, sir.”
“Volatile is one word, I suppose, though not the first that springs to mind to describe a family whose idea of fun is mountaineering in the middle of winter—the Andes, after all, are in the opposite hemisphere to this, and it’s high summer here—or a tramp steamer trip to goodness knows where, for heaven knows how long.”
“His Grace, sir, has a decided aversion to warm weather, and Lord Pelsall has inherited his father’s preferences. As for the duchess, though not a Bremeridge by birth she enjoys considerable . . . robustness of spirit, as one might term it. A craving for adventure, sir. Wanderlust is a noted characteristic of the Family, going back through se
veral generations. An earlier Lord Pelsall visited Tibet in 1803, and returned with what was widely believed to be the skin of an Abominable Snowman. It is on view in the public rooms to this day, sir. His lordship studied yoga during his two-year trip, and claimed that its practice helped him considerably during his, ahem, lengthy wait to succeed to the dukedom. His father lived to be one hundred and two, sir.”
A warning bell sounded faintly in Delphick’s head, but he ignored it. “I believe I’m beginning to see the picture—itchy feet and uncertain tempers all round, am I right? Which means there’s likely to be nobody on your side when the chips are well and truly down, Mr. Faulkbourne.”
“I fear so, sir. Which is why . . .” The steward stared at his interlocked fingers, and sighed. “When the Abbey was robbed of its pictures, sir, the duke and duchess were away: in Turkey, as you may recall. But Lord Pelsall was not with them, and was able—and willing—to set investigations in motion. Lord Edgar, however . . .”
“Is young, impetuous, and a know-all.” Delphick offered this ruthless précis with a smile, which Faulkbourne weakly returned. “So—as you’re not here officially, so to speak—what do you want me to do? Unless Lord Edgar changes his mind and decides to ask for police help, you know, I don’t really see how I can help you.”
The steward’s smile grew broader, and Delphick might almost have said there was a twinkle in his eye. “One must venture to take issue with you on that point, Chief Superintendent. As I implied earlier, the loss of the four paintings, and their safe return, made no small impression on the household at Belton. One was particularly impressed by the actions of that member of the public whose observation and knowledge received their just reward from the Coveral Assurance Company . . .”
As Bob (who had listened to the whole exchange right the way through without uttering a sound) now couldn’t prevent an exclamation of glee, Delphick smothered a groan. They’d known it all along, of course. It could hardly be anything, or anyone, else that had brought the Duke of Belton’s right-hand man hotfoot from the Abbey in defiance of his nominal master’s orders . . .
“Miss Seeton,” sighed Chief Superintendent Delphick.
chapter
~9~
“HE DIDN’T SEEM awfully happy, sir,” said Bob, after Faulkbourne had departed. “Was there really nothing we could do for the poor bloke?”
“Without having been called into the case officially, our hands are pretty well tied. Of course, we could always have a discreet word with the local boys—issue the odd warning about security with particular reference to Croesus, say. Then they might drop in on young Lord Edgar, and somehow manage to persuade him to talk to them about Raffles, without letting on they already know . . . It’s always worth a try, but he sounds a stubborn young blighter. Were you as bad at twenty-two? I suppose everybody is, and we choose to forget it as we grow older and more—I hope—sensible. Just wait until you have children of your own.”
Bob grinned weakly, then rallied. “I’m blowed if I’d leave ’em for an unspecified period of time while I clambered around a load of mountains in blizzards and what-have-you, anyway. This duke sounds an odd sort, all right.”
“Eccentric is the term, when applied to the aristocracy, Sergeant Ranger. Only plebeians such as you and I are odd. Which reminds me: as we’re talking of the aristocracy, isn’t it about time we heard from Sir Wormelow Tump? Even if he didn’t come in, I would have thought he’d telephone.”
“MissEss probably tied him up in so many knots yesterday he’s still recovering, sir,” suggested Bob, with a chuckle. “She’ll have been so confused by it all, for a start—with him being there unofficially official, as you might say, and she gets muddled enough at the best of—”
As if in response to the mention of Miss Seeton’s name, Delphick’s telephone rang. The chief superintendent picked it up with one hand, and found the other closing on his pen. The third brolly was on its way, it seemed . . .
And so was Sir Wormelow Tump. The duty sergeant in the Back Hall reported the courtier straining at the leash, so to speak, and would Sergeant Ranger please come and collect him as soon as possible. Delphick’s expression brightened.
“Sounds as if he’s come up with something—or rather he got something out of MissEss. Hurry along, Bob.” And with a swift motion he sketched an umbrella on his blotting pad.
Sir Wormelow was full of apologies for not having been in touch earlier. “But I wished to be absolutely sure, in my own mind, that the scheme I am about to propose—if you will excuse the liberty, Mr. Delphick—would stand a reasonable chance of success. My first action, naturally, was to check on the information . . .” He frowned. “Well, perhaps that is not, strictly speaking, the correct word. To check on the suggestion given me by Miss Seeton . . .”
And he explained to his enthralled audience the “winter” theory of the little art teacher. “The correlation between the two lists—the police report, and that compiled for the Anyone’s article—is substantially as she proposed. There are a great many missing items, Chief Superintendent, which have a distinctly chilly air about them. Croesus, while evidently a wealthy man, would appear to have a . . . a fixation with the cold—and I feel that it should be possible to exploit that fixation in some manner.”
“In some manner,” said Delphick with a smile, “which my instincts tell me you have already decided, Sir Wormelow.”
Tump reddened. “I would hardly be so presumptuous, Mr. Delphick, although—I admit, yes, I have certainly thought out a plan which, with a great deal of good fortune, might lead us to Croesus, or at least to his . . . henchmen. People who prey on others, Chief Superintendent, must feel no surprise at being preyed upon in turn.”
“The floor is yours, Sir Wormelow,” Delphick said, with an expansive gesture. “Sergeant Ranger will take notes.”
“We must bait a trap,” said Sir Wormelow simply. There was a brief silence. He made a deprecating face. “It seems the obvious thing to do, does it not?”
“Go on,” invited Delphick.
“What could better suit the taste of Croesus than a work of art designed with his . . . his fixation in mind? He has a catholic taste, as we have noted. He acquires items from no particular period, and in no particular style: not all those items listed may in fact have been stolen on his behalf, but of those about which there is some form of consensus it was, to Miss Seeton, evident that the ‘winter’ correlation is far higher than might have been expected in any normal list. And I agree with her. Anything with a suggestion of the brumal is likely to attract him: my argument is, therefore, that if we could supply a painting with a winter theme, and make its possession desirable . . .”
“Trumpeted in all the newspapers as the masterpiece of the century,” said Delphick, leaning forward eagerly. “Then he’d be keen as mustard to own it, if he’s as much of a megalomaniac as everyone seems to think. We could stake it out—a rota system, surveillance—nobble the gang when they turned up to pinch it, follow the trail back to Croesus . . . Yes, I like it, Sir Wormelow. The only problem is that we need a painting for him to pinch. Ah.” Delphick caught the gleam in Tump’s eye. “Keep talking, Sir Wormelow.”
“If we could enlist the cooperation of the press, there is something which I feel would do splendidly, with little alteration. A watercolour which I noticed yesterday, above Miss Seeton’s sitting-room fireplace: she called it A Grey Day, and it is certainly . . .”
He broke off as Bob spluttered behind him, and Delphick tried to show no emotion at all. He failed. Tump regarded the chuckling chief superintendent with surprise. Delphick recovered himself, and apologised for the constabulary outburst, adding:
“As my sergeant would no doubt be overjoyed to inform you, that particular watercolour appears to be Miss Seeton’s personal impression of—well, of me. If memory serves me aright, the insubordinate Ranger thought it rather cold, but a nice-looking picture on the whole.” Delphick glanced over at the desk where Bob sat with his shoulders shaking, a
nd tried to scowl. He did not succeed. He sat up straight.
“I agree with you, Sir Wormelow, it’s a splendid choice, and I would be delighted to think that my, er, efficiency as a deterrent of crime continued even in absentia, but it must rest with Miss Seeton, of course. Though she presented my sergeant’s wife with her vision of him as a muscle-bound, thick-headed footballer”—Bob choked in protest—“it seems she took a more considered view of her portrayal of myself, by keeping it. Perhaps she thought I might be offended, or perhaps she just took an unaccountable fancy to it. But for whatever reason, it remains her property, and she might not want to submit it to any risk. Although, knowing Miss Seeton, I’d take a bet on her being only too happy to help.”
“And so, if I were a gambling man, would I.” Tump drew vague shapes in the air with his fingers. “The addition of some snow, perhaps a sparkling of frost on the leaves in the foreground—a title such as The Dying Year or Winter Desolation”—Bob choked again—“and, as I said, the cooperation of the press in announcing the discovery of this masterpiece in, oh, somebody’s attic. An elderly person has just died, maybe, and the heirs are clearing the house before selling it—a young married couple explore their new home, and—”
“Hey!” Bob didn’t so much choke as erupt. Delphick and Tump stared at him with startled eyes. Bob turned as red as he’d ever done in his life, but managed to blurt out an apology of sorts before adding: “What about me and Anne, sir? We haven’t been married long—and MissEss wouldn’t be half as bothered about lending the thing if she knew it’d have us to look after it for her, sir. After all,” he said, as Delphick seemed about to speak, “it’d be keeping it all in the family from her point of view, wouldn’t it? Sir.”
Delphick looked at Tump. “I should explain that my rash young sergeant and his bride have adopted Miss Seeton as an honorary aunt: a position which requires the holder to keep her nephew’s body and soul together by the judicious application of vast quantities of gingerbread—”
Miss Seeton by Moonlight (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 12) Page 7
