by Lynda Wilcox
“You’d better make sure you lock up your valuables, Sophie, old girl,” someone called.
“Nah.” Sophie Westlake shook her sleek head and waved a hand on which a diamond ring flashed. “I trust all of you lot, and the only valuable I’ve got and care about is Tommy.” She dropped a kiss on the top of his head, causing raucous laughter in some quarters, and plenty of oohs and aahs in others.
“Phew,” Ann muttered. “That was close. You almost single-handedly put paid to everybody’s social life. Just think, no more parties, soirées, or friendly get-togethers, all courtesy of Lady Eleanor Bakewell.”
“Don’t.” Eleanor shook her head and buried her nose in her glass.
“That would have been my livelihood straight out of the window.”
Ann could be remorseless when she put her mind to it. Eleanor hoped she was only joking, but what if she wasn’t?
With a sigh, Eleanor wandered back into the kitchen in search of a refill to drown her sorrows. The cocktail shaker was empty, but an array of bottles on a shelf next to the larder caught her eye. She was just debating whether it was the done thing to help oneself when Sophie came in.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “Only you look a little worried. Is that because the shaker is empty or due to something else?”
Eleanor laughed. “Oh, the shaker, definitely.”
Sophie was not so easily deceived. “Look, I know tonight is supposed to be a happy occasion, but that doesn’t mean that everyone has to pretend to be happy if they’re not. If you’ve got something on your mind that’s bothering you, then spit it out. Maybe I can help. I can at least lend you a sympathetic ear.”
“Thanks, Sophie, and I am happy for you and Totters. Have you set a wedding date?”
“Yes.” Sophie walked past her and took down a selection of the bottles which she proceeded to pour into the shaker. “I’m going to be a June bride. Saturday the 14th of June, at St Martin-in-the-Fields. You’ll get an invite, of course.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful! I shall be there.”
Eleanor knew the beautiful church on the corner of Trafalgar Square and thought it a perfect venue for her friends.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
Sophie gave the metal cylinder a vigorous shake and poured some of the concoction it contained into her own and Eleanor’s glass.
“When are you going to find a man and settle down?”
“Oh, I shan’t get married.” Eleanor took a sip from her glass, and coughed. “Stap me!”
Sophie slapped her on the back. “That’ll put hairs on your chest.”
Eleanor got her breath back and laughed. “I’d rather they didn’t. No one will want to marry me if I have a hairy chest. I shall stay an old maid, making the rounds of my friends, expecting to be fed, watered, and accommodated for days at a time, and they’ll groan whenever they hear I’m at the door.”
“Nonsense. You’re a clever woman, you’ll find yourself a man someday.”
Eleanor smiled but made no answer. She wanted different things out of life. To her, getting married was not the whole point of existence that it appeared to be to Sophie. There had to be more in life than that.
Totters put on a gramophone record and the party became even livelier and noisier. Eleanor sat and nursed her drink and went home as soon as it was decent to do so.
“I don’t fit in, Tilly,” she told her maid as she got ready for bed. “There has to be more to life than parties and husbands, yet I’m a duke’s daughter, expected to conform. To marry someone equal to my rank and breed more little future earls or countesses, lords and ladies. I don’t want that, but I don’t know what I do want.”
Tilly hung up her mistress’s dress and returned to rub Eleanor’s shoulders.
“Yes, the war changed us, didn’t it?”
“It doesn’t appear to have changed anyone else.” Eleanor sighed. “It’s just me. Ann’s got a job, and that keeps her happy, but it’s still just parties. What is she going to do when the partying has to stop? Everyone else is marrying, settling down, and I feel so out of it. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m very happy for them — especially Totters and Sophie — but I have nothing. I’m just a looker-on, a spectre at the feast.”
“Then perhaps it is about time you found a man yourself, my lady.”
“Don’t you start.” Eleanor grinned and threw a pillow at her maid.
“And you do have a job, remember. Private enquiry agent. Go to bed and perhaps in the morning you’ll see your way clear to solving Sir David Bristol’s murder. You’re just feeling low because you don’t appear to be making any progress on the case.”
“You’re probably right. Thank you, Tilly. Goodnight.”
But as she lay in the darkness, going over the events of a long day in her mind, both sleep and a solution to the murder proved elusive. Someone had said something that she now thought important, though at the time it had passed her by.
She turned over, listening to the sound of rain against the window. The face of the Banner’s editor flashed into her mind, swiftly followed by the prim features of Miss Haringay, and then that of the handsome, stern Major Armitage. She let his face linger, and called his words to mind.
“You’re too good an operative.”
Too good.
Too good.
She fell asleep with a smile on her face.
Chapter 18
Eleanor, nursing a bad head, remained silent during breakfast the next morning. She had drunk two cups of coffee before she trusted herself to speak, and then it was only to renounce drink.
“I shall never have cocktails again.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will, my lady.” Tilly’s reply came in far too loud a voice for Eleanor’s liking.
“Well, not one made by Sophie Westlake. That girl should be banned from being within half a mile of a cocktail shaker, let alone using one.”
She refused Tilly’s offer of bacon and eggs with a groan, but two slices of toast left Eleanor feeling much better, and at least able to face the day.
“How did you get on with Miss Dacre?” Eleanor asked as the two of them sat in the drawing room later.
“She was charming and even gave me a signed photograph of herself. I’ve never been backstage at a theatre before. I found it fascinating.”
“And the answer to my note?”
“Ah, yes. Sir David knew the Lancashires, and Sir Oswald Brain. She didn’t recognise the name of Hope-Weedon, so doesn’t know if Sir David knew him or not.”
Eleanor gave this a moment’s thought. “Hmm, she’s unlikely to forget Hope-Weedon. He’s too attractive to be missed. All right, Tilly, thanks.”
It had been a long shot that Armitage’s suspects would be involved with Bristol, let alone have reason to murder him, but it had been worth asking the question of Deanna Dacre.
“What about you, my lady? Have you worked out why Lady Lancashire said she no longer needed you to look for her pearls? She must have been pleased if they hadn’t been stolen after all.”
“Oh, she was, and yet...” Eleanor paused. “Hang on to that thought, Tilly. You’ve got something there.”
She pulled her legs up, heels resting on the seat, and wrapped her arms around her knees. Tilly sniffed.
“Yes,” Eleanor said, after a moment’s cogitation. “Yes, she was pleased, but it was a smug pleased, not the genuine pleasure you would get from finding an item you thought lost or stolen. I can’t describe it, other than to say that it felt wrong somehow. And there was a sense of relief, too.”
“Relief at not having to pay you, you mean?”
“No...o, I don’t think that was it.” A vision of Barbara Lancashire staring forlornly at her chequebook floated into Eleanor’s mind. “Although it might have been, perhaps, if I hadn’t been so quick to wave away my fee...
“We can forget about the story of the pearls having been sent for cleaning. That was just poppycock, all my eye and Betty Martin, an
d it didn’t ring true at all.”
“So, what happened for Lady Lancashire to change her mind so rapidly? Why did she call you in one day, because the pearls had been stolen, and then tell you not to bother a day or so after?”
“Ah, Tilly. There’s the rub.”
Tilly’s face acquired a sour look at the vagaries of those members of the gentry who didn’t know their own mind. “It makes no sense.”
“Doesn’t it, though, Tilly? I think it might, you know.” Eleanor unwound herself from the balled position she’d adopted, and stretched her legs. “Have you still got the newspaper with the report of Sir David Bristol’s murder?”
“I think so. I kept it, seeing as you might want to look at it again, otherwise I’d have used it for kindling.”
“Be a lamb and go and get it for me, then, will you?”
As her maid departed to the scullery, Eleanor considered the audacious idea that had come to mind following Tilly’s questions.
“There you are.” Tilly brought in a copy of the Times. “It’s clean, if a bit crumpled. Do you want me to iron it?”
Eleanor laughed. “No, silly. It will be fine as it is, thank you.”
She took the newspaper from her maid, and put it on the floor at her feet. The murder had made the front page and a grainy photograph of the sombre faced owner of the Daily Banner stared back at her as she bent over it.
“Have you solved it then?”
Eleanor glanced up. “I don’t know, old girl, but I have had a preposterous idea just present itself. Sit down and tell me what you think, will you?”
“Yes, my lady.” Tilly sat down again, perched on the edge of the settee.
Her mistress finished reading a paragraph, sat back, and lit a cigarette. “The thing that struck me the most when I first went to interview Lady Lancashire was not the account of the burglary, which even then I found somewhat spurious, but her insistence that she needed the pearls back. Needed them back, not wanted, you’ll note. I thought then that it was an odd way to phrase it.”
“Perhaps she needed them back for a specific reason, then?” Tilly pulled at her lower lip.
“Exactly!”
“And then something happened that meant she no longer needed them after all.”
“Yes, that’s my take on it, too. The preposterous idea is that Barbara Lancashire no longer needed her pearl necklace...because Sir David Bristol was dead.”
“Eh?”
Eleanor puffed at her cigarette and grinned at Tilly. “Yes, I said it was preposterous, but what if?”
Tilly sniffed. “You’ll forgive me saying so, my lady, but there’s preposterous and there’s downright daft.”
“Oh, I’ll grant you that it seems that way at the moment.” Eleanor threw the remains of her cigarette into the fire. “That’s because I’m lacking a motive.”
“What for? If Lady Lancashire needed her pearls to give to Sir David, and didn’t once he was dead, then why were you no longer needed? She still didn’t have her necklace.”
“Hmm. Also true. I hadn’t thought of that. Oh, heavens what a muddle.”
Excusing herself as she had things to do in the kitchen, Tilly went out, leaving her mistress to continue mulling things over by the fire.
Unable to resolve things by herself, she picked up the phone and asked to be put through to the Daily Banner.
Danny Danvers was in the newsroom and more than happy to speak to her.
“Got anything for me, your ladyship? It’s dreadfully quiet around here at the moment. More like a morgue than a newsroom.”
“Yes, I might have. I’d also like to pick your brains.”
A deep chuckle echoed down the wire. “Are you sure it’s just my brain you’re after? I’ve better features than that, you know.”
Eleanor laughed. “Quite sure, though thank you for the offer.”
“Then, how about I take you for dinner tonight? I’ll book a table and meet you outside Rules in Covent Garden at eight-thirty.”
“Rules, eh? Can you afford it?”
The establishment laid claim to being the oldest restaurant in London, and also one of the most expensive. It was said that Edward VII and his mistress Lily Langtry had dined there in a private room. Eleanor hoped that Danvers intended eating in the main area; she didn’t much fancy being closeted with him.
“Well,” he said, “if you’re not going to pay for me, then I suppose I’ll have to.”
“Oh, I’m an expensive lady to squire around the fleshpots of London, Mr Danvers.”
“Thanks for the warning.” He laughed. “I’ll see you at eight-thirty.”
Eleanor replaced the receiver with a smile. Had he been flirting with her? Or she with him? No matter, she enjoyed the easy banter with the charming reporter and looked forward to an evening in his company.
Promptly at half past eight Eleanor’s taxi turned into Maiden Lane and dropped her off outside the restaurant.
Danvers stepped out from under its red and gold awning and put a hand under her elbow.
“Good evening, my lady. You obviously agree with the axiom that punctuality is the politeness of kings.”
She smiled. “Of course, though I try not to get that far above myself.”
Heads turned as Eleanor and her escort were shown to their table. Her long, sweeping dress was cut low at back and front. Tilly had remarked that the only thing holding it up was gravity, but admitted her mistress looked stunning in the peacock blue creation.
Among those heads, Eleanor noted that of Gerald Hope-Weedon and, at a table further on, Major Peter Armitage. She nodded and smiled to the former, who got to his feet and sketched a small bow, but the latter she ignored after catching the brief shake of his head.
“Now then, my lady,” Danvers began after they’d perused the menu and placed their order with an attentive waiter. “This is a rare pleasure for a lowly newsman like myself. So, what have you got for me?”
“That depends. Have you heard anything more about Bristol’s murder?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s all gone rather quiet on that score. I keep sniffing around, but can’t find much, and I doubt, given their silence, that the police have either. What about you?”
Eleanor wrinkled her nose. “Would you say he was capable of blackmail?”
“Jehoshaphat!” His eyebrows rose. “Well, yes, I would, but then as you’ve gathered, I didn’t care for the man and wouldn’t have put anything past him. Are we talking blackmail for business or pleasure purposes, here?”
She smiled at his turn of phrase, considering it very apt as well as biting. “Both. Certainly as a means to an end.”
“What sort of an end?”
“A political one.”
The arrival of a bottle of wine put paid to any further conversation for a while. Eleanor, who had telephoned the restaurant herself and ordered it in time for it to be opened and decanted, noted Danvers’ glance of alarm and hurried to reassure him.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “It’s a terrible cheek on my part, but I wanted to make some contribution to the evening. After all, I called you.”
“Ah, but it was I who asked you out.”
The wine waiter, perhaps suspecting that a lovers’ tiff lay in the offing, suavely intervened. “An excellent choice, if I may say so, my lady.”
A few moments later, Danvers agreed with him. “Please feel free to order for me again, my lady. I’ve tasted nothing like that since I was in Paris on Armistice Day and the restaurateur insisted on opening his cellar. Ah, happy days.”
The meal arrived a short while later and perfectly complemented the wine — and vice versa, as Danvers put it.
“Danny,” Eleanor said, as they were about to tuck in, “what do you know about the chap at the table behind me and to your right? The one with a red rose in his lapel.”
Danvers eyes never shifted from her face. “He’s known as GHW in newspaper jargon. The man of the moment, a man going places. He’s a little t
oo sparkly clean for my taste.” He grinned. “I’m an old cynic who trusts no one. Why do you want to know?”
Eleanor picked up her wine glass. “You know nothing to his detriment, then?”
“Can’t say that I do.” His brow furrowed. “You’re being very intriguing this evening.”
“I did say I wanted to pick your brains.”
“So you did. I hope you’ll leave some for me. They’re quite useful, I’m told, especially in my line of work.”
Eleanor laughed. “Don’t worry, I shall. I hear he's keen to become Foreign Secretary. So what then do you make of the head of that department, Sir Robert Lancashire?”
“Oh, he’s all right. He’s a competent fellow, inclined to keep himself to himself, and hide behind his wife, but generally speaking he’s well liked, even respected.”
“Do you know his wife?”
“I have met her, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say I know her.” He gave a sly grin. “Unlike present company, she’s not my type.”
Determined to give him no encouragement, Eleanor ignored the playful banter. “I’d also like you to take me gambling later, in whichever is the best place in town.”
Danvers had been about to take a sip of wine and put the glass down.
“On your money, I hope. I don’t earn enough to throw it away on the spin of a wheel or the turn of a card. Besides, gambling is rather frowned upon you know, and I’d hate to get arrested.”
“Yes, that’s understood. I’m not trying to have you locked up or fleece you. Shall we call it research?” She smiled archly. “I’ll explain it all when we are somewhere more private. Somewhere we are unlikely to be overheard.”
As soon as she’d said it, Eleanor thought of Major Armitage and cast a glance in his direction. She wondered who he was with, and ignored the feeling of relief that he appeared to have no female companion of his own, for he sat with an older couple who had their backs to her. Perhaps they were his parents, or maybe his boss and his wife.