“I see,” she said as Baxter entered with the tea, a selection of biscuits, a silver pot filled with strong coffee, and handful of telegrams. “Good morning, Mr. Baxter. Thank you for accommodating us.”
“It is my pleasure, my lady. Shall I pour?”
“I can do that,” Charles offered. “Is this the entire collection of messages?”
“It is, sir, and here are the morning editions for your perusal,” the butler added, removing the broadsheets from beneath his left elbow. “Lady Victoria has returned and asks if we will be sending flowers, sir.”
“Flowers?” Beth asked. “To whom?”
“The baroness, my lady,” he answered before Charles could interrupt. “In condolence for Baron Wychwright’s untimely passing.”
“His passing? Charles, did you know about this?”
“I did, darling, and I’d planned to get ‘round to telling you. I should have done last night. It was just that you looked so happy to be home. I didn’t wish to spoil it.”
“Oh, poor Cordelia! After everything else she’s suffered, to have this hit her as well. Charles, we must send her a card. No, we should visit. Baxter, would you fetch me a bit of paper and a pen?”
“Of course, my lady. On Haimsbury stationery or Branham?”
“Haimsbury. Black ink. And a lap desk, in case I spill. Thank you.”
The butler left the tray and departed to find the items in the marquess’s study.
“Charles, how did the baron die? He looked quite healthy to me the last time I saw him. Is there something I should know?”
“It wasn’t a natural death.”
“Not natural? An accident?”
“That is yet to be determined,” he said, preferring not to reveal the truth. “The case belongs to the city police and Sir James Fraser.”
“Shall I ask him, as you refuse to offer a clear answer?”
She started to stand, and he took her arm. “No, Beth, please, remain here. Yes, I investigated it, and as you are highly intelligent, I’m sure you can deduce that a crime was involved. I’m afraid the baron was murdered.”
She fell back to the sofa, despair overtaking her face. “Poor Delia! Oh, Charles, this is awful! I really must speak with her. Perhaps, I should go there this afternoon.”
Baxter knocked as he re-entered the private drawing room. “Sir, I do hate to interrupt your morning, but a somewhat impatient constable awaits in our foyer. He has a message from the police commissioner.”
“Tell the constable I am with my wife, Baxter. He will have to return to Whitehall without a reply.”
“Well, sir, I did tell him that, but he insists that Commissioner Monro will not take no for an answer. The young man asked whether or not you have read the telegrams, my lord.”
Charles reached for the stack of messages. Three came from Whitehall. One from Aubrey. He opened his cousin’s first. “The earl asks me to meet him at White’s on St. James’s Street. He does not say why.” He opened the first of the Whitehall messages. “It’s from Monro. He says to meet him at White’s as soon as I can get there.”
Beth sighed, realising she’d be eating alone. “I take it the others ask you to meet them at White’s?”
Sinclair opened the second and third Whitehall telegrams. “Salisbury. Yes, meet at White’s. And this other is from the Home Secretary. The same. Darling, I am sorry. Can you forgive me?”
“If all these men seek your input, Captain, how can I deny them? Go and save the world from crime.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
12:01 pm
White’s Gentlemen’s Club had occupied the centre of St. James’s Street since 1778 and was the oldest, and some said most prestigious, gentlemen’s club in the entire metropolis. Originally, established on Chesterfield Street in 1693 by Francesco Bianco as a hot chocolate emporium, the popular political playground soon switched from serving chocolate to tea and after moving to its current location, became the unofficial headquarters of Tory government.
The chimes of Westminster had just sounded midday as Charles arrived. Granger opened his door, and the new commissioner left the Haimsbury-Branham coach and entered the Palladian style building. The smartly attired peer handed his hat and coat to a liveried butler. “I’m expected,” he told the sober-faced servant, showing his warrant card.
“Commissioner Sinclair, of course. This way, sir.”
It took several minutes to wind their way through the busy corridors and sedate decor of the smoking parlours. Charles walked past several familiar faces, including a few he’d met at his wedding. These men nodded in recognition, and the numbers grew as he and the usher approached their destination. Most of the men standing near the murder scene looked nothing like peers or businessmen, but rather like policemen.
“In here, Charles,” James Monro called from the doorway of a drawing room. The barrel-chested police commissioner stood beside Paul Stuart, and around the panelled room were Prime Minister Robert Gascoyne-Cecil, 3rd Earl of Salisbury; Henry Matthews, Home Secretary; and oddly enough, Sir Reginald Parsons, the mysterious chief clerk of the House of Lords.
Aubrey wore a grim expression. “Forgive us for calling you out this morning, Charles. I assure you, it is urgent. This crime will reach all the papers before evening, making it imperative that we learn as much as possible before members, or worse yet, reporters destroy the scene. You know everyone here, I think.”
“Yes, I do. What’s happened?”
“Sometime ‘twixt three and eight o’clock this morning, a woman found her way into the club. The porters, footmen, and butler all insist that no servants admitted her, yet she lies dead in the room just beyond this in company with Lord Peter Andrews. Andrews was last seen alive by a fellow member shortly before three o’clock. That member hopes to keep his name out of the papers, as you might guess, but he is available for questioning.”
“Who?”
“Edward Milesborough. He’s MP for Whitstable, and he stays at the club whenever Parliament’s in session. Now, it’s thought that Andrews died first and then the woman, for her body was still relatively warm when the cleaner discovered them both at eight o’clock.”
“Peter Andrews. Why is that name familiar?” Charles asked as the prime minister joined them. “Good morning, Lord Salisbury.”
“Charles, thank you for coming. We hated to disturb you, but as you can see it’s rather a mess. A Division simply won’t do, although Monro suggests they should handle enough of the investigation to keep Dunlap pacified. This is far too sensitive and requires a more experienced hand than Joe possesses. I should like your new intelligence branch to take charge. Consider this your first official case.”
“If I may ask, then, sir, why is Henry Matthews here? Surely, Monro’s presence is enough.”
“The Home Secretary and Andrews were close friends. Both belong to this club, you know. Charles, this must be handled delicately and discreetly. Andrews has recently spoken out in support of a new bill that would give women the vote.”
“I don’t see a connexion. That bill is controversial, to say the least, but it’s hardly a reason to kill a man,” Sinclair noted. “And the woman? What has she to do with it?”
“That is why it is so very delicate,” Stuart explained. “Her name is Monica Wiltmore, a well-known suffragette, and most probably his lordship’s mistress. As with the other murders, the victims were found inside a locked room. And, as with Lord Hemsfield, Andrews also belonged to club known to our family all too well. One whose symbol is a bird.”
“Redwing.”
“Precisely. I’ve wired James and asked him to convene a meeting for seven at your home. We should be able to work through the evidence by then. I’m sorry for pulling you away from Beth. I’m sure the two of you hoped to enjoy a quiet day.”
“If this is Redwing, then we work in her cause, Paul. How is Cordelia?” he asked a
s the two stepped into the murder scene.
“Devastated. One of her brothers arrives from Carlisle today. Edward Wychwright, the youngest and probably the only decent one of the three. William serves in the Army, posted currently to Afghanistan, and Thomas is a perpetual student of life in Paris. I sent them telegrams, but only William had responded as of last night. I promised to call on her this afternoon.”
They’d entered a smaller drawing room, where decades of conversation still whispered in the air like debating, political ghosts. Green wallpaper covered three of the walls, broken only by a pair of windows that looked eastward onto a large gravel park and green space. Charles took in all the details before advancing further.
The peer’s body lay at an acute angle with the fireplace, his head against the fender. Had there been no other trauma, one might assume he fell and struck his head, but the lack of feet or hands made that an impossible deduction. Each had been removed, and the carpet near the wounds was soaked with congealed and drying blood. A three-foot long ceremonial sword, stained to the hilt, protruded from his chest, rising up from a gash that ran from chin to bowel.
The unfortunate woman fared little better. She lay face down beside the man, her arms bound behind her back, a curved blade inserted into the thoracic region of her spine, two inches above her heart. She died slowly, in agony, barely able to breathe.
“This is hellish,” Charles said as he stepped towards one of the windows. Beyond the park, he could see a three-storey building with a large marquee. “We have a perfect view of the entrance to the Egyptian Theatre. Isn’t that the same place where you encountered Rasha and di Specchio?”
“Yes, on the last night I saw Susanna Morgan alive,” Paul answered sadly. “And before you ask, I’ve assigned Galton’s team to search for Morgan. Matthew Laurence sailed for Ireland last night. He promised to wire as soon as he has news regarding O’Brien.”
“You’ve been busy,” Charles told his cousin. “Regarding the search for Morgan, tell Galton to start with Urquhart.”
“I’ve already done so,” Paul informed his friend. “I thought I’d pay the builder a call tomorrow to discuss the weather.”
“Oh, no. You’re not to meet with him, Paul. Consider that an order. Once we have a dossier of every aspect of that worm’s life, I’ll handle the interview.”
“You think I’d hurt him? Really, Charles,” the earl grinned, removing his gloves. “I’d hardly touch him at all. A broken arm or a cracked jaw, at most.” Returning to the task at hand, Aubrey stood over the victims, shaking his head. “None of this makes sense. We know Hemsfield and Andrews were Redwing, but what about Wychwright? How is he involved?”
“The note in the baron’s pocket might be a clue. I’ve issued a warrant for Wendaway’s arrest. If he’s Redwing, then that may be the link.”
“Perhaps, but why? Is murder the only means to solving disputes, or is there something we’re missing?” Aubrey asked his cousin. “And why here? With this woman? Surely, they could have slain Andrews when he was alone. Is the woman involved? Is her death a message?”
“Possibly. But if it’s a statement, who is the intended audience? Us? The police? Other members? Is it bloodletting for ceremonial reasons or intended as a warning?” Charles asked. “I’m still trying to puzzle out the Tarot card you found.”
“I suspect someone in Redwing hopes to lay blame on Romanov. Where is he?”
“I find myself actually wishing he’d show,” Charles answered, examining the room and staging. “Has anyone searched his pockets yet? Also, we should look for any occult items.”
“Like the Hand of Glory candle France found at Hemsfield’s murder?”
“Yes. Exactly like that.”
Paul bent beside the man’s body, trying to keep the blood from staining his boots. “I’d assumed A Division would have searched him when they responded, but apparently not.”
“When did A arrive?”
“At nine, so I’m told,” Stuart answered. “Clearly, Dunlap’s constables require lessons in crime scene investigation. Here are coins, a pearl button, and a latch key. Why would he carry that?”
“To unlock his house, presumably.”
“No, he wouldn’t. Lord Peter keeps two houses. One in Mayfair, and the other in Marylebone. Both are large and well-staffed. Such men never unlock their own doors.”
“Then, it may unlock another house,” Charles suggested. “One not his own.”
“Exactly. Look, I’ll go to the Mayfair location and speak with his butler. We may find something in a diary. Have you met Reggie Parsons yet? He’s called the chief clerk at the Lords, but that’s hardly sufficient. The man’s a summary of governmental secrets in a Regency suit.”
“Yes, we’ve met. Parsons, his extraordinary suit, and I had a very interesting exchange on Monday, actually,” Charles told his cousin. “I’ll explain later at the meeting. If you’re going to Mayfair, then I’ll speak with the steward here and ask if our victim kept a room at the club. The latch key might fit that lock, rather than a house. Also, I’ll find out if Andrews belonged to any other clubs.”
“And the woman?”
“I doubt she stumbled into an assassination. More likely, she’s involved. I count three, used whisky glasses. Who enjoyed the third?”
“A very good question,” Paul said, sniffing the amber liquid remaining in one of the glasses. “Glenfiddich. A young whisky maker, but not bad.”
“How can you tell it’s Glenfiddich?”
“I grew up around fine whisky, Charles. One develops a nose for it. Before you speak with Milesborough, get the steward’s story. It’s possible they may not align. Someone let this woman into the club after hours. One or both may know if she visited before, although it may require financial incentive to jog the steward’s memory.”
Charles smiled. “You employ underhanded methods, Lord Aubrey. I only have ten pounds on me, though. How much does it cost to jog a steward’s memory?”
Paul withdrew his wallet and handed his cousin fifty pounds in small denominations. “Twenty ought to do it. That’s two month’s wages for most men. Oh, before I forget, I’ve told Cordelia that any family members coming to London for the funeral may stay with me, if they require lodgings. Her mother’s house is somewhat small.”
“Queen Anne’s available, if they require more space. I’m sure Beth would be happy to offer it.”
“Thank you, Charles. Poor Delia’s in shock, but her mother’s not helping in the least.”
“I’m sure the baroness is in shock, as well,” Sinclair suggested. “Losing a husband suddenly is difficult enough, but losing one to murder is devastating.”
“That might be true for a woman in love, but the baroness always seemed cold towards her husband. She’s taken to bed and claiming a bad heart. All those doctors hired to care for Cordelia now flutter ‘round the dowager baroness’s door.”
“Dowager? Oh, yes, I imagine the eldest son now inherits.”
“William gets it all. Houses, land, and what little money poor old Wychwright managed to keep back from his spendthrift wife. Forgive me, it’s poor manners to speak unkindly of her just now, but I find the woman insufferable.”
“Could it be you care more for the daughter than you want to admit?”
The earl said nothing, merely raised an eyebrow.
“Paul, I’ve a few things to tell you about recent days that add up to trouble. Not only these murders, but other things. Very odd things that portend great danger.”
“I can look after myself, Cousin,” Aubrey assured him. “If odd things have happened, then any danger is most likely directed towards you, not me. See you this afternoon. Six, if not earlier.”
The earl passed by Salisbury as he exited.
“Aubrey’s leaving already?”
“He’s off to conduct enquiries in Mayfair. Tell me, how w
ell did you know Lord Peter?”
“Moderately well,” Salisbury answered, his long beard wagging along with his chin. “Andrews was made a lifetime lord a few years ago. He led the negotiations in Cypress, you know. In ’77. Couldn’t have been more than thirty at the time.”
“He looks older than forty-one.”
“I believe he’d been ill. He missed a few meetings now and then, always sending regrets due to poor health. I’m sure his doctor could confirm that.”
“Do you know his physician’s name, sir?”
“Unless he’s changed, it’s Alexander Collins. Odd sort of duck. An alienist, I think, which may be appropriate in Peter’s case. He behaved rather strangely in Cypress. Conducted some sort of occult ritual there with a goat. An Orthodox priest made complaint to our consulate, causing serious ripples that very nearly ended the negotiations.”
“A goat?”
“Yes, so I heard. I can’t tell you any more than that, but it involved a great deal of blood. Derby was foreign secretary then. He might be able to shed light on it. He’s a Liberal Unionist now, I’m sorry to say.”
“Would Lord Derby still be in London?”
“Certainly. Parliament doesn’t adjourn until the middle of the month. If there’s debating to be done, you’ll find him in the thick of it. He keeps an office at the Lords. I’d suggest introducing you personally, but I rather expect he knows who you are, Charles. You’re becoming quite a broadsheet celebrity.”
Sinclair sighed. “Yes, I spoke with a great lady of mutual interest regarding those broadsheets on Monday.”
“Sorry I had to miss, but I was contending with other matters. That good lady sought my input before and after the story reached Fred Best’s huge ears, and do stop calling me ‘sir’, Charles! You’ll be a duke soon, and perhaps even more, if that lady gets her way.”
“I haven’t said yes, Robert.”
“Oh, but you will. That lady is persuasive and impatient. She awaits my report as to what’s happened here, so I must be going. I hope you’ll stop by my office this week. I’ve a few questions to pose before our next cabinet meeting. As Commissioner for Intelligence, you’ll sit with me on those meetings. I did tell you, I hope?”
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