A Death for King and Country - A Euphemia Martins Murder Mystery (Euphemia Martins Mysteries Book 7)

by Caroline Dunford

  ‘Oh, I knew she had been on the Titanic,’ said Bertram. ‘I just didn’t know Hans and Richenda had got her fresh from the ship, as it were.’[13]

  ‘You make her sound like a fish,’ I said in disgust.

  ‘So will you show me this letter now?’

  ‘I would feel uncomfortable doing so,’ I said, desperately thinking on how I could play on Bertram’s notion of honour. The last thing I wanted was for him to read about my family.

  ‘But I’ve worked out who it is!’ he protested.

  ‘Indeed, you worked it out. I didn’t tell you.’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ said Bertram, frowning.

  ‘I only told you what you already knew,’ I countered.

  Bertram glowered at me and I feared another lengthy argument. ‘Can we compromise?’ I said quickly. ‘Perhaps if I could tell you what is in the letters without showing you? That would make me feel more comfortable.’

  ‘On the condition you do not lie to me,’ said Bertram.

  As I had been lying to him for days I could hardly protest indignantly. Instead I agreed. I told him about the tasks, but I did not mention the rewards I had been promised.

  ‘So what is the next task?’ asked Bertram.

  I picked up the letter. He rose and stood on the far side of the wall, so he could not possibly see. I curbed an impulse to smile at his seriousness.

  Now, Euphemia, your next task should not tax you too onerously. I require you to go to the office of Sir Markham Linkwater, introduce yourself as my emissary, and ask to speak with the great man himself. I think you will find my name should give you entry, but if it does not, ask his secretary to send in a message that says you wish to speak to him about what occurred in the Winter Gardens in ’01. That should suffice.

  Inside this envelope you will find a further envelope. By all means open it and inspect the contents if you wish. However, you will find it contains photographic images of a senior civil servant cavorting al fresco and in a state of dishabille . Even for one used to amorous adventures, like myself, the sight is unseemly, and for your innocent virgin eyes it may well prove too much. If I was still alive I admit I would love to see the expression on your face seeing them – or even reading this.

  Suffice it to say, Mr Linkwater has been under an obligation to me since ’01. I always promised that one day the proof of his indiscretion would be returned to him and this, or as near as dammit, is the day. I would ask you also to remind him that on receiving this he promised on his honour to complete one last task. I do not need to burden you with further details. I am convinced he will remember our conversation on the matter in question in perfect detail.

  There, that shouldn’t be too hard, should it? His office is at (here he gave a London address). Get Bertram to take you up to town to see a show or some such thing and have some fun with this.

  Regards

  F

  ‘He wants me to return some blackmail material to a civil servant,’ I said. The expression on Bertram’s face was priceless. His jaw worked several times before he managed to speak.

  ‘Good God, what a damned rascal that man was!’ He came over to me and took one of my hands quite tenderly. ‘I am sorry to say this to you about him. But clearly you cannot complete this task, no matter what feelings lay between you.’

  It was then I realised Bertram had, with his unerring sense of misdirection, was not about to let go of his earlier wrong conclusion easily. He believed my tears upon his entrance, and perhaps even my more ‘feminine’ behaviour of late was due to my regard for Fitzroy. He believed I was grieving. [14]

  The easiest way to disabuse him of this notion would have been to show him the letter and reveal the background to my family. I seriously considered this for a moment. If there was anyone I could trust with my family background it was Bertram. However, my mother’s pride was such that she had only accepted that I might work if I used another name. If Fitzroy was right, and some day my grandfather and my mother were reunited, then perhaps it would all come out. But I suspected my mother would hope that to anyone that mattered in her eyes, that is, any member of the aristocracy, the story might never be told.

  And in all honesty I could not face the emotional turmoil of answering the inevitable, and in all likelihood long, list of questions Bertram would ask. He would also doubtless feel I had deceived him and I would have to deal with his reaction. It was all far, far too much for me at present, so I did the only other thing I could think of that would disabuse Bertram of his notion.

  I laughed.

  He looked pleasingly nonplussed. ‘My dear Bertram, while I would never wish any man dead I am not bereft that Fitzroy is gone. It is perhaps a little hard to believe that such a vibrant character is gone, but believe me, that is all I feel.’

  ‘Of course. Of course,’ said Bertram. ‘The reality will not have sunk in yet.’

  I was barely listening. ‘To be honest, I do not think I wish anyone dead. Although I do wish some people were charged with their crimes and that might lead someone to be hanged. Do you think that’s the same as wishing someone dead?’

  ‘Let’s go downstairs and get you a warm drink. I think it would do you good to be out of this room. If it becomes known I have been alone with you in here for this long it could arouse suspicions.’

  ‘I would hate to think that I would ever want to end another human being’s life, but when it comes to someone who has committed murder and whom you help catch …’ I trailed off. ‘It all becomes very tricky, morally speaking.’

  Bertram took me by the elbow and led me downstairs. Of course, I could no longer continue my previous discussion, so I merely commented on the elegance of the hangings in the hallway. This earned me an approving look from two elderly ladies, who were obviously long-term residents of the hotel, and a baffled look from Bertram.

  He helped me very tenderly into my seat and ordered tea and crumpets. His face lit up when the order arrived and he began to thickly butter his crumpet. ‘I take it this was comfort food at school?’ I asked.

  Bertram nodded and said something through his chewing. I only got the words ‘study’ and ‘toasting fags’. Boys’ schools have always been a mystery to me and I thought it better to leave it that way.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘how long shall I extend our booking at the hotel? Do you know this London address.’ I recited the one mentioned in the letter. Bertram paled slightly.

  ‘That’s where your man is? He must be someone very important. This really isn’t something for you to do.’

  ‘For reasons I have explained to you,’ I said, trying to keep my temper in check, ‘I cannot pass this task onto anyone else.’

  ‘No, I do see that,’ said Bertram, ‘even if I think Fitzroy is being a damned rotter, I do understand how you feel honour-bound to keep this as secret as possible. But you still cannot go.’

  ‘Then what precisely are you suggesting?’ I asked acerbically.

  ‘Oh, that’s simple,’ said Bertram, spraying crumbs across the table and dropping melted butter down his shirt-front. ‘I’ll go.’

  [13] The things Bertram fails to question will never cease to surprise me. I can only assume it comes from the bourgeois notion of not prying into another’s business.

  [14] Really, for a man who occasionally claims to hold me in high regard he appears to think my heart most fickle.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In which Bertram takes charge but ends up in

  his pudding

  It was, of course, a very bad idea for more reasons than I could easily enumerate in one single afternoon, but it was also extremely difficult for me to refuse Bertram’s idea. In fact he made it impossible for me to do so. With great misgiving, I let him have his way. I gave him the enclosed sealed envelope and he went up to his room to change. I sat toying with my crumpet and trying to push the idea of disaster from my mind.

  A little over an hour later, when I had moved from the dining room to one of the day lounges, Bertram made hi
s reappearance. He looked discreetly dapper and there was an air of gentleman’s toilet water that followed in his wake.

  ‘You look very smart.’

  ‘Tell me you did not look inside that envelope,’ he said, his colour rising.

  ‘It was sealed. Did you look?’

  Bertram places a finger under his collar and pulled. ‘I felt I needed to know what I was getting into. Damned if I know how I will look that man in the face now. How did Fitzroy get those pictures?’

  ‘He said they were “al fresco”,’ I said. ‘Doubtless he was continuing his normal stock in trade and spying.’

  ‘You mean he was watching while they …’ he coughed hurriedly. His colour was now heading into puce.

  ‘It’s what spies do, isn’t it? Watch people in private moments when they think they are alone.’

  ‘But protecting the security of the nation and all that,’ protested Bertram.

  ‘I expect Fitzroy felt it was often too long to go through the correct channels, so he set up a sort of short cut with someone who would have his finger on the pulse of things.’

  ‘You sound as if you approve!’ exclaimed Bertram.

  I shook my head. ‘Oh, no – though I can appreciate the tidiness of it.’

  Bertram regarded me much as if I had grown two heads. ‘That damned man had too much influence over you.’

  A retort rose quickly within me, but really it was better if this whole situation was got over and done with. There were more envelopes yet to be opened. ‘Shouldn’t you be leaving to catch this man in his office?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bertram shortly. He formally doffed his hat to me and left. From the lounge window I watched him walking stiffly down the road. I wondered if his gait was due to his disapproval of the task, or simply the result of eating too many buttered crumpets. If the latter, I could only hope his trousers did not split at an inopportune moment.

  I did not expect Bertram to return quickly. I had little knowledge of the locale, but I suspected he would have had to have hailed a taxi. I certainly did not expect him back much before dinner time. As such I spent the rest of the day lounging around the hotel and attempting to appear a lady of leisure. I read the periodicals on offer in the reading room. I gazed out of the window at the passing pedestrians. I tried to read a novel – the most pointless of pursuits. I considered visiting Rory or even summoning him to attend me in the hotel, but I suspected both options would cause outrage both to the hotel guests and the man in question. Finally I could bear it no longer and decided to await him in the lobby.

  I had begun fretting so badly over what Bertram may have done that I was in danger of wearing a ridge in the lobby carpet. One of the bell boys had also begun to eye me in the most impudent way, when Bertram erupted back into the hotel.

  The doors flew open in front him. He had not waited for the doorman to do his job, but had thrown them wide himself. He stalked into the middle of the lobby. His hat was missing. His tie was loosened and his eyes were glittering: with anger? Excitement? I could not tell. I only knew he had worked himself into a passion. I concluded the meeting had not gone well.

  I managed to get Bertram into a private dining chamber before he let loose. Not a moment after I had closed the door, he blurted out, ‘Damn man challenged me to a duel!’ At this point the waiter, one I had not previously seen, joined us, requested we be seated, laid napkins on our laps and presented us with menus. I thought for one moment that Bertram was going to strike him. The waiter was certainly one of the braver members of the hotel staff, because despite Bertram’s glowering aspect he merely retreated to the corner and awaited our instructions. Seeing no other option than to bodily remove him Bertram flung down his menu and instructed he would have ‘whatever the chef decided’. I ordered quickly, choosing some of the plainer dishes. I have never felt more like skipping a fish course in my life, but some proprieties have to be observed or we would regress to the level of the jungle.

  The waiter finally left us, but not before several backward glances. I suppose Bertram was a little dishevelled, but it hardly warranted such suspicion. As soon as the door closed behind him I asked, ‘Did you fight a duel?’

  ‘Good God, no!’ snapped Bertram. ‘Nobody does that sort of thing nowadays. But I will own things were a bit dicey there for a bit. Blighter thought I was Fitzroy! Seems they’d never actually met.’

  ‘Of course! He would have been careful to protect his identity. I should have thought of that.’

  ‘It would have been a ruddy sight more helpful if you had,’ said Bertram, savaging a bread roll with his fingers. ‘Mind you, once we’d established I wasn’t him and that neither of us had liked him a lot we got on like a house on fire. Keeps a devilish fine brandy!’ At which point he hiccoughed loudly.

  ‘Are you inebriated?’ I asked indignantly.

  ‘For God’s sake, woman, you’re not my wife,’ spat Bertram at which moment the waiter entered with our soup. As he set mine before me I could see little ripples going across the surface. The man was obviously shaken; literally.

  ‘I am afraid Mr Ellis has had a difficult afternoon,’ I said to him. Both the waiter and Bertram gave me an odd look.

  When he had left Bertram said, ‘Dammit, Euphemia, did no one ever tell you one never apologises to servants. It only makes them drop their standards of service.’

  ‘I have been a servant,’ I said with dignity.

  ‘Then you will know what I mean,’ said Bertram grumpily.

  ‘So what did happen?’

  ‘Drink your soup!’ commanded Bertram. ‘That damn waiter will be back any minute. He obviously got hold of the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘But I want to know what happened!’ I objected. ‘This was my task.’

  ‘I’ll tell you over your steak. That will be the longest course, they’ll leave us alone.’

  I had no idea what he was talking about, but Bertram can be as stubborn as a mule with a sore head when he puts his mind to it, so I did my best to contain myself in patience. Though I fear I may have hurried the waiter along a little.

  The chef had chosen to give Bertram steak too, and over this he finally let me know what had happened. There was little to tell. Apart from the case of mistaken identity, which had been patched up over the best part of a bottle of brandy and some dismembering of the deceased personality, it had, according to Bertram, gone swimmingly well. ‘Hate to think what would have happened if you had gone,’ he said in a self-congratulatory way.

  ‘Did he not react to the fact you had seen the – er – evidence?’

  ‘I resealed the envelope. Told him I wouldn’t have dreamed of opening the damned thing.’ He took another swig from his wineglass. ‘Really, I don’t think the man himself could have done it better.’

  ‘I suppose, then, that after we finish I must go and open the next envelope,’ I said. ‘I wonder what it will contain?’

  ‘So far you have had to give money to a vicar and return some blackmail material. I think we can be assured that whatever is going to happen next will be even more exciting,’ said Bertram. ‘And when I say exciting, I mean, of course, damned inconvenient.’

  ‘You are swearing a great deal this evening, Bertram.’

  Bertram gave me a bleary look that spoke of the volumes of brandy and wine he had consumed. ‘At least I am not considered to be a lady of the night by the waiter,’ he said.

  ‘What? Oh, that wretched bellboy! He was staring so rudely at me!’

  ‘While you were pacing up and down waiting for me, who you quickly thrust into a private room …’

  ‘Oh, good heavens! But the staff know me!’ I protested.

  ‘Big hotel. Lots of staff,’ said Bertram, who was now carefully measuring out his speech in a way I found most alarming. His head was also nodding over his plate. It finally collided with his rice pudding and if I had not grabbed him by the scruff of the neck I think he might well have ended his career right there and then. Considering my family b
ackground I was not prepared to let someone else die at a dining table if I could prevent it. I hauled him backward, so he was half-slumped over his seat and dangled just a little onto the floor.

  When the waiter returned I gave him Bertram’s room number and told him to add a discretionary amount to his bill for the staff’s trouble. I then announced that I would have my coffee in my room, and emphasised that I was a resident, whatever the rude imaginings of a young bell boy.

  On reflection I too must have slightly over indulged in the wine, because normally I would have followed my mother’s precept of never explaining. As it was, I realised when I was seated in my own chamber that I might have been somewhat rude.

  ‘Pah! Serves him right!’ I said loudly, and unfortunately at the same moment as my coffee was delivered. I could only conclude that both Bertram and myself would be providing much of the discussion in the staff rooms today.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee and fetched the next envelope. I felt it with my fingers. There did not seem to be any enclosures but paper. I had half feared I might find tickets to the United States of America inside. After all, that was where he had been headed, and who knew what business he had over there. Perhaps it was where he kept Mrs Fitzroy and all the little Fitzroys.

  The sun had set and the room grew dark. I laughed. I knew that whatever was contained within this letter it would not be about his domestic arrangements. There had been nothing domestic about Fitzroy.

  What I could not have predicted was how the contents of this letter would plunge both Bertram and I into the deadliest peril we had ever encountered.

  Chapter Fourteen

  In which Fitzroy asks an awkward question

  I did not open the envelope until the morning. This was not so much fortitude on my part, but that after two extremely emotional days I felt I deserved a good night’s rest before I embarked on whatever Fitzroy had planned for me next.

  Dearest Euphemia,

  I rather feel that now you know so much more about me and my work I am entitled to address you as dearest. The happy side-effect of being dead is that you are no longer able to berate me. Though I admit I would have given much to see your face on opening the envelope containing those photographs. I am sure an English Country Rose like yourself, even when transplanted into the inferior soil of the Stapleford estate, could never have imagined that two men could get up to such things.[15]